Before the war we bury the windows Before we bury the windows we take them down The tallest of us altar boys lifts a purple blade from a frozen robe & holds it with both hands before handing it to me at the bottom of the ladder I don’t understand how anyone can make a shard of glass a weapon blood would draw its borders on both of us my hand your chest The boy peels a red plate from the flat dusk behind Christ We’re told heaven is beautiful but I think I’ll miss parsnips coriander sky tempering the aluminum gutters of our houses The boy hands me two hard fingers brought together in benediction then the bow of a halo like a bottom lip The stained glass makes its way underground & makes way for sunlight There’s a basement where we wait out the war We touch each other’s cheeks light with hair I think I’ll miss my nose how water damage makes cologne of the missals
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
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