Resurrection
by David Hopson
The grass is vulgar above the septic tank,
lush, like roses fed on fish bones.
Cushions going to seed on the weatherproof chairs.
You at your barbecue, roasting meats.
I walk the dog, but she can make it no farther
than the edge of the yard, shambling like a gray cart.
When we cum these days, more often than not,
it’s in towels, t-shirts. There was a time, collecting
your clothes, I would have pressed
your underwear to my face.
Incense, smoke: sometimes, the gods
could be moved. They answered
with lightning and birds. They were powerful enough
to preserve a dead man’s beauty
when a chariot dragged him through the dust.
But never once did they bring a body
back to life.
David Hopson is the author of the novel All the Lasting Things (Little A., 2016). His poems have appeared in Poetry, Copper Nickel, The Adroit Journal, The Southern Review, Washington Square Review, and Foglifter, among others. He lives in Brooklyn, NY.