Sacredom: Death

It was not that I didn't call, aloud,
your name, I did: Jesus, Jesus,
heal this flesh and fix these bones
I groaned: yolk-like, I dragged the 'e's
of 'Jesus' the way the yolk is glued
to the eggshell, has stained my fingers
meringue. My limbs have become torn,
have shifted as if into the yolk, that
position it has before it leaves the eggshell,
askew. A-canter. That way. I laid
down, have been laying down
for a long while, in a pool, less
the abandoned Greek figure than
the barbarian splayed, forgotten
in marsh- mires filled with cattails.
I grasped for my necklace: a
sacred sign my hands clenched
around. And then I knew, and turned
as if a survivor to the sky: a blue
sacredom: On earth no blood was
ever spilled