The Fruit Borne

The Fruit Borne

1920 1280 Rodney Wilder

What was hoped to flower when sowed
that tree your extinguished macabre?—
the open-armed grotesque
bereft of what our ransom robbed,
wrung down loveless whorls,
a presage wasted on the mob.
What was hoped to flower when sowed
that tree your extinguished macabre?

What was sung to burst from earth once
gagged with our despair?—
the only hands to hold us, broken
spokes revoking the share
that vampirized the very sun
and left Him lightless there…
What was sung to burst from earth once
gagged with our despair?

What was known to grow your tomb
a garden worth the blood?—
worth the learnèd bile
finding lies in thirsted rud,
worth our spearhead-engines
spurning mercy for a flood.
What was known to grow your tomb
a garden worth the blood?

What, the someday-bloom for whom
you hung in lurid glory?—
breathed yourself a Godless haunt
ensconced in cloth and quarry:
nightfall, but one castrated by knowing
the dawn punctuating the story.
What, the someday-bloom for whom
you hung in lurid glory?

What, the tendrils greening ground
that Hell intended fallow?—
verdant gospels curling in
response toward the shadow
shifting where the unperished God now
fruits what flew from a gallows.
But what, these tendrils greening ground
that Hell intended fallow?

What, if not the dying heart revived
inside my chest?—
the life and lives survived, whereby
this victor manifests:
I, fathered toxic
by a cancer loved no less
were it not for that nehushtan sunk
the husk of drained redress
whose light—latent and unmade—
kindled our discarnate sod,
kindled this sepulchral black
we know and fear as god,
and all the wounds that living in
its shadow sees us prod:
the violence at my younger throat,
the trauma vainly clawed,
the grave-loam sworn to lives reduced
to how they bruised,
and every aftershock this taught
thunder is refused
by what flowered where you rose
a pulse of able news…
What this resurrection fruit makes of me,
and whose.

 

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Rodney Wilder

Rodney Wilder is a biracial nerd who bellows death-metal verse in Throne of Awful Splendor and writes poetry, with previous work appearing in FreezeRay Tales of the Talisman, and his first collection of poetry, 2012's Ars Golgothica. Currently writing his fandom-fueled followup, he likes nachos, analogizing things to Pokémon, and getting lost in Oregonian forests.

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