by William Ingogly
Wailing and sobs — a great stone grinds into place. The smell of cold stone, blood, sweat in the dark. A ticking starts in the Corpus like the sound of a great engine cooling, or a death’s head drumming for a mate. The Body hits ambient temperature.
With great solemnity the bacteria begin their work, hoping to unweave the work of creation, sending cadaverine and putrescine rising in the dark like a hymn to Abaddon. An unseen Hand stays their efforts.
Somewhere a Soul is working its way back through a void. A jittering starts in the limbs. Quantum improbabilities abound. Breath fogs the darkness. Somewhere there is singing, then light.
William Ingogly is a poet and essayist who lives in Greenville, South Carolina. He has previously been published in Eyecatcher and The Word Magazine. His work explores the relationship between liminality and the numinous.
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