Tonight's Poet Corner: Risen Indeed
Risen Indeed by Belinda Roddie I ate my way through Easter Sunday, listening to sweet hymnal wet dreams that caressed both of my inner thighs with holy water and flat wafers: The crisp, pink crust of bread dyed with bad wine, seeping into each swollen pore, creating pustules shaped like the pregnant belly of Ursa Major, snarling over Christ's crucified carcass of wheat. You watched me fall asleep before the celebration was over. Wrappers once cuddling with buttercreams lay like shriveled dead skin against my sticky, sticky fingers, and somehow you doubted that I could be removed from my own tomb, complete with baseball games on the television and too much whiskey mixed with cider, the cacophony of my body rising against the lustful urges of the flesh, sticking its tongue deep down into my soul's constricting throat. The gag reflex was not enough to prevent the resurrection, and there I was, compromised in all ways except one: Life, life, life, a