Go far past yonder heaven

God took its shirt off up here.
It has no arms and rubs its ribs
on the gravel underfoot, this foot
we stole from it, half of us burst apart
crouching through the storm it threw
as it fell over and lost some of itself,
and we so were overjoyed at the blessing
we took some more. We take his shirt.
No smell to it, not nectar nor offal,
saw its mouth on a pedestal, just cleaned,
its kneecaps on the front and back door
to this house on our foreheads.
It knocks on one of the doors,
spits at the peephole and one of us
drops dead. Can’t swallow pieces of it,
man, can’t take that in, it’s human too,
realised that when—it bellows through
our lobbies and walls and corners,
all wet, stomps through to the basement
where something drums and drums along.
It gorges on it. Human too, but used
to picking its diaspora from its teeth,
used to killing what it used to be.
It walks out standing. Is again a he.


~ by Jeremy on October 11, 2010.

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