for the ones who rise sideways

This is the sound of dry bone gravity,
not a rattle, but a drag,
a low hum in the hips of the earth
where memory clings like dust.

This is the crate.
Big.
Heavy with hush.
Where dead men walk again,
not upright, not solemn,
but sideways, jazz-legged,
ankles flirting with resurrection.

We packed the crate with breath,
with glucose prayers and glitter shoes,
with hymns that loop like spiral maps
and placemats that remember joy.

Dry bone gravity doesn’t care
how holy your choreography is.
But we do.
We do.

So we stomp.
We shimmy.
We call the bones by name.
We open the crate
and dare the silence to sing.