The Nudge of the Refugee

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Taught to remain dead from the womb,

she walks among tombs, whitewashed

crypts concealing skeletal remains

of 1,000 generations, closets clammy

.

and fungal. She bites the apple

of her ancestors which, ever since

Newton wed Granny Smith, dictates

a hard fall. The System says, ‘Stay! Be

.

at home with Depravity, shake hands

with Despair! Dry bones can but rattle,

dead men can but dance.’ But she feels the

nudge of the Refugee, the rebellion of

.

soiled skin; when she opens her eyes

to Truth, she finds her mantle is but a

rented chrysalis. When they take the final

tally, her casket will be an empty husk,

.

with hinges rusted like dry blood, an

apple seed rooted through its temple.

Laughing at Gravity, she will rise

on the wings of the dawn, emancipated.

 

.

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Proof of Purchase

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Her reply blushes,

apologetic for existing

beyond what her

back story projected

.

(probable destiny –

doormat, a yearbook

dilemma). From

inside those petals,

.

she can’t possibly

appreciate the

mystery and fragrance

that draws him in,

.

fly to honey. She

checks her nails,

boredom masking

terror, and another

.

one bites the dust.

She will add him

to the collection,

proof of purchase.

Her Imperfection

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She let him see what others couldn’t,

opened closets

and emptied drawers

and exposed her viscera.

She fully expected him to flinch,

toss her back

(a fish out of water,

the one who got away)

but he didn’t. Instead,

his tears met hers

and formed a river, a magnificent

fountain, rivulets which thickened

like blood. She revealed her nakedness

and he, finding her soul to

be more than oxygen,

found the pearl of great price

within her imperfection.

No. 49

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Only a number to the world at large,

but intimately known

by his Maker –

every habit,

every scar,

every dream

accounted for

as the Shepherd

counts sheep

not to sleep

but to keep track

of

 when

to dispense

grace.