That you would find me in the hollowed bones
of sun-dried cattle, asleep in the desert, and wake me
with the cells needed for my restoration, reassembled
into rivers of salt and blood, layered in skin never before
touched, newborn with shadow-sight, awkward and afraid,
unsure if the vast space inside me can be filled by a man
who would spin through my center with the velocity
of planets, and the scream of fierce winds, who would
identify me in the dark with hands of red clay, perform
the ritual and say the words, that I would, once again,
know the confusion and delirium of Lazarus.
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