will not be lined with palm trees. Its pathways steep,
its sentinels guarded, its every step
another word in a long string of prayers. At first,
the body nothing more or less
than its own reflection, a mirror
half-shattered, a canvas tempera painting
of a river tumbling across my back. Then,
a turning, a slaking, a cadaver consuming
aeons and aeons of unspoken curses,
countries we haven't yet visited,
worlds only visible from the back
of our bedrooms, closet spaces
filled with more dead bodies
than we possibly have time to bury. Still,
this harmony, this hymn of our heartbeats,
the sound of the telephone
nearly audible from the bedside,
this constant attempt at finding just
how far away we can get from our skin.
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