Flowers of Jericho

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.

Jericho Rose

Dust, dust all is dust.

 

 

Copyright © Talia Hardy. B.A 2013
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