Ezekiel 47

I.

Commence blindness, invisibility,
A woman fleeing the temple in search
Of a sea in which to drown in.
Arbitrarily the feet cry, “Eastward!”
The Sun not yet risen compels her so.
Soles strike against something unstrikable—
A stream of one weary thousand cubits.
Frustration climbs unbidden to her throat,
And the body tugs itself onward, tripping,
That it may collapse in darker waters.


II.

A thousand cubits crossed, and change conquers
The stream, now knee-deep and encompassed by
That which felled Eve. The half-sun reveals fruit trees
With golden faces turning on thin stems.
Reflected in their suspended delicacy,
She accepts her state on the grass-ridden bank,
Makes a treaty with the disappearing darkness,
Promises to enjoy the soft light a while longer
Instead of seeking - well, she can’t recall.
Among gilded trees, she wanders a thousand cubits more.


III.

Water begins to rush, then roar with pride.
She takes fruit for the journey, plunges,
Giggles as her feet are swept from grounding reason.
Bobbing along, grandiose velocity
Numbs her body to the cold, rocks, and teeth.
Her mouth devours golden fruit endlessly
Because the stomach is invincible,
And the full celestial sphere adores her
Uncontrollable and ceaseless grinning.


IV.

A downward rush hushes her round-cheeked laugh,
And her stomach senses mortality as
She, a thing, moves impossibly downward,
Deposited by the fall Into the Dead Sea.
The tongue tastes blood and salt.
Wounds now sensed and seen burn,
Yet her mind feels only the need for rest.
The choice: Permanent, or that of transitory smiles and terrors?
She opts for the first, dives and strains
Only to unwillingly surface again and again.
To float.
This is what it leads to.
Follow the feet, the water, the smell of salt,
And find not a deep finality or Carpenter’s boat,
But a basin of unsinkability.

The Sun now hides its gentle face behind a cloud,
And she sets herself to wounds cleansed, but not yet healing.