Nekyia by Isabel Grey

Under, under dirt and rubble
Circle of stone, sand, bone,
Architecture encompassing the delicate point,
Circumference sea shell-trimmed
Like wreaths on doors like garden gates.
Ribbons Olympic in question marks on the sky say
Wake, wake the shadows and combs,
Each tooth untangling a snarl of breath,
Brushed smooth and parted to make way for commands of blood and chant.

Feather, feather the oars of rippling pulse
Wade the onyx canal islanded with blurry shapes—
Crocodiles, motionless and patient.

Widen, widen aperture encumbering the depth,
Expose light where it no longer shines
And bring a photo so the dead are reminded
Of a time when their lungs were full.

Greet, greet a sun who gave its final set
And rouse to a morning past the dead’s last day
alive. Hammer claw revival rips the nails of finality
And from the punctures grow mushroom caps sprouting
from upward-facing palms outstretched across the sodden branch.

Rise, rise to eat a breakfast of second life
Tasting of hourglasses turned westward.
Wash this down with infant wine, sieved through still-drying grape skin
And cupped in marrow chalices.

Box, box the mold-clothed heart and tie the lid with dark
red thread for colorblind is the dead to this guarding string—
Collateral for the necromancer’s rite.

Back, back for she has no more use for you. Close,
close the circle and book. Douse, douse
the candles. Ring, ring the
bell. Sleep.
Sleep.

Isabel Grey is a Colorado resident. She is currently receiving her MFA in Genre Fiction and Poetry at Western Colorado University. Her work has contributed to Black Poppy Review, The Chamber Magazine, WordCrafter Press, Ample Remains, and The Gay & Lesbian Review.