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.

.