Naturally, at every resurrection there’s
at least one nonplussed and unconvinced
hooligan—arms crossed, mumbling—who dares

to giggle while the crowd suckles on the tits
of its communal foolishness and swallow
whatever milky drivel they’re given. Since

this celebration proves the Void, the Hollow
of What Comes Next, let me be the placard
you’re welcome to scrawl an Ex Nihilo

on both sides of. And please don’t treat this boneyard
soiree of yours like something precious—wrapped
in bounded tissue, I’ll still not waste a shard

of me to salve what comes apart on you. Corrupt,
you’ll call me; heartless, even. Truth is: when
your organs squirm in jars somewhere in Egypt,

feel free to judge. Granted, they took my brains
and scrambled them away, yet, here I am—
the strangest in the crowd, but not insane

enough to buy this palm-and-donkey sham.
So if no one minds, I’ll pull the mirrors’ stash
of smoke, call out the bluff holiness assumes

you won’t ignore: First, there’s dirt, then the hush.

Patrick Whitfill