Kozo

If the intention is to raise the dead,

attention must be paid to every follicle,

every pore, every thread.

Examine the body, hidden for too long

in the secret, sacred room. It lies here,

scarred, perhaps beyond redemption,

scored by beetles, larvae, silverfish.

The proper spatula must be used to lift away

the grit and sand. Be aware the inks

are vulnerable and may not withstand

the treatment. You want these pages alive,

the crumpled skin smoothed flat, tears wiped

away with kozo tissue, beaten down

to be thin as a prayer, to repair the surface

layer by cobwebbed layer. This

is how resurrection looks. Not a sudden

blinding light and open arms and eyes cast up.

Here the eyes are concentrated

like a surgeon’s, like a mother’s, downward.