In a sudden, cataclysmic wake
Earth will reclaim
the tradition packed within
the deadweight of our rot

& in a sigh of exhaust
it will release the history
shared between our spit:

The sun’s soft posture
gave way to two quick motions
of a hot knife that robbed us
of what was left to be seen of Hell.

At the judgment
between ground and shovel,
we bartered for a handful of seed
& let thirst give meaning
to our bones.

Down we prayed,
the ground under our knees
beaten and bloodied,
but rain looks good on you,
your white shirt
lapping the sharp edge
of your breath.

On your chest,
I hear the push and pull
toward an infinite north,
yet my feet feel warmer
in the dirt
where the pulse is weaker.

With time,
the soil will scrape
into our wounds;
our buried bodies
will split in two,
four,
& a green stalk will
lead us from a
womb too cramped to carry—

& under the sun’s soft posture
will emerge a seedling,
soon plucked by a hungry child who
cuts the years off our tongues,
& again
we will forget/
we are forgotten.