Sky Burial
not so clean, this conversation between skins, between mine
& yours, pulling a body open to let a little light in or leaving

the holes filled, scraps without ceremony. then there is bone.
a white bouquet catching & holding some sun, nearly drowned

in all this red. on each page of this endlessly unread book,
a horse dies. slaves are fed to the sea. young men armed

with flowers paint their pain all over the sidewalk. chalked
figures like a list of forgotten names. ruined choirs. my mother

& whatever happens when you stop believing. in what, i guess,
is the question these days. heaven’s fine but what of breath’s

tender geometries? the ladders unfurling up into broad empty skies?
what of my children, whom the other children don’t know how to classify?

a few trinkets boxed up & labeled & forgotten. daddy, what is home
when home is everywhere? nowhere? every alphabet hurts a little, i reply.

paper misses its tree. history its lessons. my hands miss your hands
missing their context. the world is all wolves & the wolves are beautiful

this time of year. from our bones: knives, flutes, delicate china. should we let
the ruined stay ruined, i ask them. i’m sorry we still don’t know how to read you.
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