First, know they will take your hair, your nails, maybe your hands. Â Â Â Â Â
They’ll take the wood from the stake you were tied to, the screws
in your coffin, your stockings, your shoes. There will be forgeries: Â Â Â Â Â
the cup you last drank from, the panties you died in. They’ll be
mass produced and sold at exorbitant prices. Multitudes will believe    Â
these objects have miraculous powers. A farmer’s wife with a lock
of your hair will give birth to rabbits. A single pot stirred with your hand     Â
will produce enough food for a famine. Your promoter slash husband
will preserve what’s left of your body and display it in Europe. There,     Â
you’ll be not a saint but a scandal. People will protest your exhibition,
but they’ll still want a peek. All of this will be beyond your control.     Â
No marvel is in control, in death or life—the second thing you must know.
Third, expect many proposals. They’ll come with bouquets of roses.     Â
They’ll come stuffed inside beer bottles. They’ll be graffitied onto
your trailer. Full-page ads will be taken out in the paper. There’s something     Â
about women like us that makes men lose all sense of decorum.
Reject them outright, and you’ll never be rid of them. You must delay     Â
your response until they lose interest, even if it takes months,
even years. Last, understand you will witness some miracles for yourself. Â Â Â Â Â
Not the kind anyone asks for. A lame child will see resurrection
and be punished with whips. A beautiful girl will cry blood when she     Â
sees you. And when you ask God for mercy, your own voice will say no.
REBECCA CROSS is a disabled poet who works as an editor in Vermont. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Woven Tale Press, Breath and Shadow, and Always Crashing.