Cayenne Bradley
PSALMS
Now I return my phantom
to the ocean, where he belongs.
In his absence, my body
rewilds itself, fields upon fields
of blooming fireweed and spindly mountain mallow,
sword ferns and Scotch broom,
a refuge for songbirds and tiny field mice.
There is no part of me
that cannot be unbranded,
that cannot grow anew.
I am more than meat, more than hole,
more than mirror and tomb.
I will not write elegies
for myself just yet.
I drown the gun and burn the hands.
Spit out the gasoline.
Collapse the violent sentences
back into their words;
resurrect them as psalms.