Resurrection, 2

I found her

a monk she
unknown, unpublished, unheard, unseen
but whom many claimed was God

they printed words she’d never said
spewed, printed her image they’d never seen
to suit a needful gender

then built bright domes and glowed charismatic 
in their own sweatful confusion

and all laid down and donkey-like brayed
for salvation, and reckoning
for
their enemies
and made wars holy
and justice moneyed and slaughter a gusto

and they drank the blood of jingo jives
then moaned for their wanton heroes who cursed them in death
and in whose names they poured sand in the eyes of children,
stuffed dead babies down throats of their mothers,
and stole sons, daughters dead parents might have given,
and the poetry they might have become

these thieves, the heroes who tremble
when others, as they are, with their own gods approach

and the one called Jesus they have so disgraced so
turns his back

walks away

I found her

a monk she
frozen to death
in my backyard

worst August ever known

stuck a small daisy, simple and white, to a frozen hand
and watched the monk melt away ...
except for the wound
on
her soul
wherein the daisy remained suspended
and I liked it very much
but all the bees,
the bees of the world
it drew

so I tore my house down to give them room
and my garden prospers
as children play
where I used to live
and these all notice the daisy in air

but for their wise elders, it must have a lack of glamour,
though I like it very much

even behind their new bright dome
they built where I used to live,
how they keep
the
bees away

the ancient daisy grows and the bees of all the murdered
are coming home out of the wound coming out of the wound