Good evening, skin that is cousin to dirt. Stay
in my hand
like the head of a child, let me count your rivers—
one leading
to ankle, two, so eager to sweep this eye, three—where
does one walk
in heaven? I’ve heard tell of golden roads, milk, troves
of honey aching
towards a beach. Are there beaches in the sky? Beyond it?
I imagine life
and itsafter as a pair of butterfly wings boasting a vibrant
symmetry. Like
your feet, heavy to the palms when I am on my knees. I do
the washing,
say hello with the mount below my thumb, say how are you
with finger-
nails tickling an oft forgotten softness—till touch, too, becomes
tongue-tied—
till hands can no longer speak as gently as other parts of me.
I part hair,
mine all mine, down the center. I
work musk-
root into you, as though you are soon to rise, soon to die.
No one will
witness this: the conversations between hair and feet—
remember us,
friend, when you dream, waking to heavens without me.