Lee Kiblinger

all the coals

That night he imagined grabbing some tongs,

lifting a coal and searing his lips shut

while he cowered around the red smolder

to warm the chill of lingering denial.

Blood-tinge burned in his grave eyes, mirroring

the flames of those who hovered nearby

to will their own thaw, and he shivered

his hidden shame, pleading to break, raw.

Till that crow’s cry laid bare his fears, loosed

his damned tears, and he staggered into night’s

fog, dazed by the haze of his ghostly soul,

grieved by his own spirit, caked in coal.

Later he’d approach another fire pit,

its fish-scent covering the ash-gray ember

where his lonely fast from grace would break

and love lit his lips into an emblazoned glow—

freeing the smoked whisper, Lord, you know.

to lazarus

When he called your name

we couldn’t rise—

Come out!

alone, two words

could have cracked

all our caves,

all our cries

echoed through

these crypts.

But he called your name,

Lazarus

and we remain

underground

Come out!

alone, two words

could have lifted us

from the forsaken

soils of slept centuries.

He might have sobbed seas

that spilled

over earth’s edge,

sinking these tombs

but instead, for you

He wept

his tears moistening

our graves

where we sip

on the mist of your name

wet words still cried

for our sake

while we wait

beneath the glint

of love-rain.