I’ve written so fondly of heaven,
so many times.
The egg white,
the ruffle over breast,
how rugged the soil for garlic.
The tin square is an opening to heaven.
Galisteo etching,
place for worship.
Dry heave, splinter, caress.
Blood in the sheets.
Rinds of bright red melon.
And why are you so far away from me now?
Remember when I sat on your lap,
and you struggled to hold my weight?
Not because of my heaviness
but because of my heaviness
precisely because of my fluidity
and because I move so slowly.
Once, I held a tiny glass of dark blackberry port
in the archway of a gallery museum next to Jesus.
The last time I saw the gothic bay.
It transformed liquid to blood water,
the last time I was by myself in a quiet room.
I feel raw in the small of my back,
skinned and fresh.
I’m a baby animal.
Birthed from water,
Rain,
Stem cells,
Maritime trade.
There is a bartering systematic friction within the pulse.
Found teeth,
Found roses.
Strung with corn on the rosary.