god’s throne has lost its legs—
humbled, god morphs into a creature and

panics, a creature that
panics.

the night my blind, hollow eyes became the holes in
my mama’s septal heart—lonely, quiet, full of

darkness—màmá marvelled at the
moon, oh, so bright!

{strange how our wounded lives can
flutter at the smell of distraction}

but, in my darkness, i stretched my hand to it in
accusation:          oh fraud,
                                 what is your light but a corruption of heaven?

the god, he’s sprawled on the ground.

i once heard an elder swear that the bright eyes of a
child can fill a mother’s heart?

but, god, these eyes do not see.

i and màmá, two moons, two eclipsed suns.
yet in the manner of desperate men, i
prayed that the polluted light fills my eyes.
make me see.

i hear màmá sob, i hear her crave the grace of
a light i do not have
her bosom so pressed to me i heard the
                               slow p u l s i n g of her holey septic heart—
                                            two more months, is it?

rárá, màmá, it’s okay.

a gasp and a gasp, & death consumes her breath,
deadweight slumping over a child’s darkness

in a metamorphosis, the end is the tail of
a seed. so, that night,
god became a creature—did you not see his throne

f

 a

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   l

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