Melissa Prunty Kemp

Shadows branch, a spider web. I am caught. A dog snaps at my hand. I am held fast by the skein.  Green algae gurgles through my splintered boots. Sulfur stench foxtrots inside my lungs.

 

Two paths lie ahead.

 

On one path, blinding light like what hit the Apostle Paul descends. Crisscross bindings fade. I am lifted into a spare undertaker’s coffin, just another dead soul, wagon-teamed to the potter’s field. Upon burial, I will emerge from lightly laid soil.  I am a dandelion, perennial, rooting myself further from home.

 

On the other path, I spit into the shadow and listen to where it falls.  After I establish silence, I weave the branches into a breastplate. I wear lichen for earrings and green algae war-paint. I train the dog to breathe sulfurous fire like dragons.  I weave water into a boulevard.