in the heart of the blackest night
when the tombstone seemed final
and the blood had cooled in my veins
the earth jolted
like a sprout opening toward the light
from the depths fallen into forgetting
from bones that refused
to die completely
I rose from within myself
like Lazarus from the grave,
at the savior’s voice
finally screaming
“Enough!”
it wasn’t with angels dressed in white,
but with my fury with broken wings
with unspoken tears
that carved the grave
like a wound that longed to be seen
I didn’t come out with a halo around my face
but with dirt under my nails
and tangled hair
and a body scraped by battles
and questions stuck to my temples
but I came out
the burial gown was too tight
I tore it with my teeth
and stepped into dawn
stripped of silences
I wove myself a new body
from my denials turned into answers
when the living saw me
they didn’t know whether to rejoice or fear
because resurrected women
no longer ask for permission
no longer wait to be saved
they speak their names aloud
with vertebrae aligned straight
with hearts beating like an army returning home
it wasn’t with the stone rolled away
it was shattered
by all my “I can”s
piled up
and consumed by the fire that does not lie
I tasted Resurrection
like warm bread torn by hand
like a miracle
and now I choose a resurrection each day
each breath – a return to myself
each NO – a sword cutting ties
no one came with myrrh
but I anointed myself
with writing
with truth
with freedom
with my body turned into an altar
and I cried
and I laughed
and I said
at last
“This is me.
This is my life.”
and the sky cracked
not with thunder
but with silence
the silence that comes
after a woman resurrected
from her own death
without witnesses
without approval
only with herself
and that…
that is Glory
