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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