Resurrection

In the earth
there is a slithering pressure
where mud fills the empty spaces
and warmth is close, filling each pore,
blocking each breath.

It is a place of roots and
doesn't take easily
to giving in.

Between my toes
and in my nail beds gone gray
with time,
behind my ears and my glassy eyes,
beyond collapsed lungs
and still bones . . .

A pressure
to resurrect.
To take back.
To splinter up, pushing,
fingers tubers in spring soil
and a mouth emerging
gawping silently,
unable to speak a sound,
but with eyes that see
a blaring sun.