OUR LADY OF IMPERMANENCE
It’s not the stones that let go, but the mortar.
Heat creeps between its particles, pushes
them apart to make room for the holy spirit.
My mother’s womb decomposes in a landfill
& the house where I grew up now homes another
family. Life has scattered from the center of town.
As the spire collapses the world gasps–
memory unearthed in the release, the lack,
the unplanning. Cross my legs & toes turn blue
as all of me at the moment of my birth.
Now that we know the world will end in flame
instead of frost, I cut the inside of my cheek
on my own forked tongue again & again
& the iron of my blood tastes like home.
