Lazarella
by Eliza Gilbert
So she comes back, and it’s pretty
tame, considering
the canon. The stone
falls; daylight slaps her
into gear. The girl, the uvula
of the cave, the linen portrait
of his whimsy. Martha was right
to worry about the smell.
But not him, the hot damner—he’s beckoning
again, always beckoning, a sheep-dog
with special thumbs. Come forth,
Lazarella. She comes forth.
Trips on the grave
clothes, almost eats it
in her own plot. Still Bethany’s ooh-ing
cooing over him, and her
miraculous before-and-after.
Girl’s got that lush post-mortem
glow below the eye
sockets, and the twin knobs
of cheekbone grin when she doesn’t.
Here: the slendering of faith.
Here: the woman, streamlined.
Of course, there’s some delinquent prosody.
Mary won’t stop weeping,
like he was supposed to
warn her before grandfathering
himself in. Thank heavens
there are witnesses who appreciate
his philanthropy. Lazarella doesn’t
glisten, or have much
to say for herself. The epitaph
wrapped it up nicely.
She was wrapped up very nicely.
Possum and posthume;
there’s the smell.
The fuzz of a long sleep
forever soldered to her teeth.
He asks her, nicely,
to remove the grave clothes.