When death carts me off to the bottomlands, when I begin the long work of rising—
Death, whoever and whatever you are, tallest king of tall kings, grant me these wishes: unstring my bones; let me be not one thing but all things, and...
This is what it was like: the morning pale all above me, a patch of sky like a blue poker flung into a floor of earth, this is what I have to go on. I am on my knees at first, a Jessica in prayer.