Women of the Resurrection

by Emily Gaskin

We are drowning on the wall
of how many ways to say
on the fire tongue of Set.

After Camelot
resurrections come rarely,
like archaic brass coins
bypassing museum glass
for little girl hands
that quiver
the signs and the paths
of the dousing sticks --
water witches at the wishing well.

The moon,
temple of hushed rocks
and burial light,
steals over them,
mute stone,
mute eye,
marking the days
of growing and shedding,

until their first eclipse --
burgundy --
their holy blood
spilling on the day
of the prayer book's choosing:

Bonus est
for leeches,

Malus est
for conceptions
of the immaculate kind.

Immaculate conceptions
are for those
who cannot conceive
of what we do,

cannot believe
that a woman with wings
will beat the air until she bleeds
to create breath
for him who lies lifeless,

that she will take him
against her downy breasts
and shout down the guards of the gateway,

choosing her corpse
for the miracle show

on nothing more than dark eyebrows,
or worn hands,
or ears that might listen
when she utters her prayers:

This time
Let it be.

Emily Gaskin lives in Tallahassee, Florida, where she is pursuing a graduate degree in information science. Her poetry has appeared in Strange Horizons, Pif Magazine, The Harrow, Star*Line, and elsewhere. She also edits Astropoetica, an online journal for astronomy-themed poetry.

She says: My favorite fruit? Strawberries! (no sugar, cream, or chocolate necessary)