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The Planting

Picture a man with

A zipper that runs

From belly button 

To neck. 

Now picture the 

Sensation of zipping

Down, slow toothy growl

As the zipper parts

Flesh from flesh,

Wet sound, like

Biting peach, 

Until you are flayed

Open, filleted, and

Laying on your back,

Breathless with the 

Strangeness of this

Moment, utterly 

Exposed and more

Naked than lack

Of clothes can ever

Make you. 

You feel a cough,

Or perhaps a tremble

Of inner cold, thrum

Of deep tissue nerve

Endings singing their

Songs electric into 

The cool air. 

You are both dead

And alive. You are 

Alive because you 

Are dead. You are in 

The secret hour, 

The magical hour

Of resurrection life. 

And in your palm

Is the Seed. The very DNA

Of God. A very small seed. 

Plain looking. Speck of dust

With infinity within its walls. 

And you take it, ever

So gently between thumb

And forefinger. 

And you press it down

Into your unzippered 

Soul, feeling the wet walls

Of your chest cavern against

The outside of your hand, 

Slick slime of blood and

Tissue kissing your knuckles. 

And you rub and flick your

Fingers slightly to make sure

The Seed leaves your fingers

Before withdrawing your hand, 

And then poke it twice for

Good measure, pointing 

The way.

Then you withdraw your hand,

And press your parted sides

Together, closing yourself up 

Before you take the zipper and pull. 

You have received now, 

With meekness, the engrafted

Word, which is able to save

Your soul. 

And what now grows, 

No one can see. Until it

Spreads its roots through 

Every vein and makes you

Something new. 

A being of two worlds. A doorway. 

A tree with hidden roots stretching

Down into eternity, and drinking

From golden streams

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