Like a recent widow all he saw were billowing flames
tonguing the wind as prayer flags.
All he smelled were a thousand bodies
crushed in heat’s anvil.
He forgot there is always another story. Look
to the seed. A hundred years in soil.
Its faith in fire. To split the body inside the body.
Burn to color.
Lazarus as name.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 47 | Spring 2016