By Cynthia Cruz
The child is not dead.
She is sleeping.
Gone from this world
Which is broken.
The angel of Michael
Outside the garden
His circle of fire
Maddening around the tree.
He put the word
Back into her:
A heavy kind of music.
Then she was free.
As we all are.
All night I stood in the icy wind,
Praying for the storm to destroy me.
But the wind blew through me
Like I was a hologram.
If you say I am a mystic,
Then fine: I’m a mystic.
The trees are not trees, anyway.
Source: Poetry (October 2015)
Poet Bio

More Poems about Living
Emily Dickinson at the Poetry Slam
I will tell you why she rarely ventured from her house.
It happened like this:
One day she took the train to Boston,
made her way to the darkened room,
put her name down in cursive script
and waited her turn.
When they read her name...
Altered After Too Many Years Under the Mask
I feel you
...
More Poems about Religion
For the Feral Splendor That Remains
sometimes I strain
...
Object Lesson
You learn to recognize beauty by its frame.
In the gilded hall, in the gilded frame, her milky neck
extended as she peers over the drawn bath. A target,
a study, a lesson: she requires you
to be beautiful. You should save her, no...