Marjorie Evasco

 

Not yet lost, but rising,

as corona of sun lifts

above blue marble of earth,

seen from the hatch sailing

round and round the days

and nights of exile. Here,

in the body’s ground of breath,

this now, jasmine blossoms

sing the moon’s resurrection,

bring each thing back into

the heart, old garden

tended to and mended over,

refusing banishment of beauty,

or truth. For truth be told,

without blinking an eye,

without flinching a muscle:

goodness doesn’t last

and can be sequestered,

sold for less than 30 pieces

of gold. It's the only thing cannot

be embellished with parakeets

or prophets. Look into my eye,

behold:

death is rising

radiant from the loam.