The trumpet will split the sky like a bone saw,
and I will rise up,
mouth full of cicadas and curdled apologies.
I have planted my life in crooked rowsβ
seeds of want, seeds of spite,
kernels of love I buried too shallow
and sins I tucked down deep in clay.
Now the ground is restless beneath me.
Every word I said in the dark
is pushing up pale and root-thin.
The trumpet will not ask if I am ready.
It will split the morning clean in half.
I will rise with dirt in my mouth,
harvest braided through my hair.
I know what I have sown.
I know the taste of it alreadyβ
greedy and metallic, sweet as bitten tongue.
The field does not forget its farmer.
Soon the sound will find my name.
Soon the light will take inventory.
And I will stand there, ribcage open,
waiting to see what grows.
πππππππππππ€
Pretty words for ugly things.
πππππππππππ€ 