Resurrection

Steven Baird

I am man, not real or imagined, a slumbering beast erupted from dirt. My name is unimportant, though it might have some bearing on my fate. If I knew it, I might not claim it.

I see the sun, not as I remember, but as a dim light with dim warmth, cascading onto my limbs, into my eyes, upon my gulping throat. Such simple nourishment for the starving darkness.

Bruises from sternum to groin, dank grey flesh, partially consumed by heedless worms, I am unaware of pain. Emerged from the wet soil, I am renewed. For what purpose, I do not know. To breathe again, nostrils engorged with sweet air. I will journey, but to where? Who are my foes? Who planted their spade upon my bed and walked away, satisfied? I do not know. My renewed breath and this resurrection of mind will answer what needs answering. Vengeance or beginning, I do not know. But purpose, yes. I will find it when it comes due.

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