I throw salt at night’s terrors,
dreams of my mother devouring the light.
Overflowing bowl of collarbones.
I run on stripped feet in a river forever tearing rocks.
One of my ribs wrapped
in feathers. Where my soul is a place, the flare
of paradise, snow. The language of heaven
doesn’t pass away – the fish in the sea and the sea in the fish.
In the center of grief is the City of Heaven
where only a sinner can believe
where a saint can say my eyes have seen
the sinner fling happiness into fire.
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