The Second Coming of Mary

by Travis Tate

You are lost, no –
You are softening the tender stretch of my neck.

I’m able to breath quick, running circles around my father.
His grief unspeakable.

He hangs his head,
dying flower of Indiana.

The body is gone.

But the shape of gravity is known. We carry her,
like a folded jacket of spirit, laying in our arms.

I ask John the Baptist, what is the sound of coming.
& he replies, breaking air.

The angel Gabriel, coasting down on thunder,
making lightning for first time in the world.

Her name, Mary, hangs,
dead flower of Indiana.

My father & I don’t say her name.
We let the air do it, breaking,
lightning upon our heads.

 


 

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