WHEN I DIE
When I die, burn my body.
I hope to leave with you—
among other things—
a sort of fury, enough for you
to imagine me beating the ground
with my fists, igniting.
MIRACLE
Tell me what brings you
to your knees, what becomes of us.
Your fears.
I can tell you in my own words
what we are: we are many things—
small humors, superstitions.
It must also be said
there can be beauty in anguish—
in yours and in mine.
Each of us our own poetry,
a language of wounds, and of dawn,
and the color blue.
And aren’t we, after all,
the miracle of a long-ago mess
as though by accident?
What more need we be?
c. B. L. Bruce
First published in The Remnant Archive, Autumn 2020 Issue
The Remnant Archive is an online journal comprising features on literature, art and history.