Lazarus Rises (amongst other things)

by Berklie Novak-Stolz

I think Maybe if he can leave the grave, I can too.

the words in question are simple and yet they stick to the roof of my mouth I love you. Goodbye.

and when we one day converge again you will say, "The scar I left you, what does it feel like?" and my answer will ring out across the years that once separated us “Like love.” I will say, “It feels an awful lot like love."

And ever since I was a little kid I have been told I wear my heart on my sleeve But now, it feels as if though I wear my heart on my entire body And it is bleeding And it is breaking And there is no anatomical chart to show me the correct placement for it

I am your son and I am on the cross and I am crying out, My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me?

You are not lost. You are gone.

Of all the Greek tragedies The story of Icarus and his frantic and flailing and failing final flight has always been my favorite What a strange thing it is, to have a favorite tragedy But he is mine.

I when once young dreamed of wings But now I have grown into my lead-laden feet Yet I also find myself in a young grave.

I have never felt warmer than when standing in the sun of your sin but but I am still Icarus And you are still the sun.

I weep because I know he doesn’t think he deserves to be saved. I weep because sometimes, I don't think I do either.

or maybe because I’m scared to get better. It feels good to be sad. Comfortable in its familiarity, in its predictability. A constant in this ever changing everything.

I fear people see trying as black or white, yes or no. That they see it as the step before the act of being done, before doing. We forget, that trying in and of itself is an act, an action.