waiting for the world
to crumble beneath my feet.
It was about time
I rejoined my roots.
My mother handed me
a Bible;
she counted rosary beads,
making pit stops
at every Lord’s prayer—
I joined her,
fumbling with words,
fighting to keep my eyes closed.
With her shaking voice,
I could sense
her visions of purgatory—
the fireless un-suffering,
and waiting for some door to open.
I’ve spent too much time
trampling on gravity,
obeying what I never had the chance
to ask what for.
It was about time
I slept inside the magnet,
instead of feeling its restrictions
numbing my feet.
I waited for the fault lines,
crawling, gnawing dust,
spitting muddy waters.
I know when we’re taught to pray for heaven,
we’re obligated to long for eternal rest,
but my concept of heaven is
Continuity,
returning to the myth
of clay, carved in the likeness
of the Greater Entity,
coming back to where
S/He dug me from.
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