We lie in bed with our arms around ourselves,
cradling the mangled bodies of children
who had the stars squeezed out of their eyes so that, still shining, they fell
down our faces and got stuck there in the shapes
of tears and little hairs and pimples.
For a while,
if we shut our eyes tight, our bodies aren't so stretched
and overgrown,
and there's a little more time to play before sunset.
Downstairs in the kitchen
Stars are great wheels in a machine sky.
Heaven is above in the metal dome.
You pour yourself a cup of Water.
Long live the dead we prop ourselves up on,
The cane we pass off as our leg.
Long live the gods that money trickles down from,
My head cold waits at my bedroom windowsill
Tells me:
‘No, you can’t do your homework. Lie back down and quit thinking so much.’
Tells me:
Comments
This is beautiful.
I love this.
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