Dry, dust, dust all is dust
nothing seemingly living
but the sisters of Jericho
cling to life like lichen to stone
in heat hot enough to crumble bone.
To the atheistic eye they lie
curled in stasis, a lifeless form
with backs bent against the burn
waiting for thunder’s ebb to free
tongues struck dumb in muted mouths
When the moment of resurrection comes
years of desolation are washed away
to be replaced by strange roses in bloom
until progeny from skin-split wounds
are entrusted to the earth.
Soon the daughters of Jericho
begin to feel the burn and turn
inverse on their virgin form
until nothing remains but multiples
of crucified lives in the dust.