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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)

  • Living
  • Religion

Poet Bio

Cynthia Cruz
Born in Germany, Cynthia Cruz grew up in northern California, where she earned her BA at Mills College, her MFA in Creative Writing at Sarah Lawrence College, and her MFA in Art Writing & Criticism at the School of Visual Arts. She and has published essays, interviews, book and art reviews in the LA Review of Books, Hyperallergic, Guernica, The American Poetry Review, and The Rumpus. She lives in Brooklyn. See More By This Poet

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