I would say, “Seize the day,”
but the day was stolen
by the overgrown branches
of yesterday and all we’ve lost—
years overrun by chemicals and demons
making your head scorch,
migraines multiply,
your palms sweaty with remorse,
and who are we to pine
for what was fucked?
Gehenna consumes.
.
We are left to scavenge
amongst the rubble.
There is no manna,
never was—
just mere remnants of
black holes,
burning rubber,
rubbing alcohol,
and stale, wine-soaked
communion crackers.
.
Manna was a myth,
an archetype of former loves,
fading gods,
ever-growing scar tissue.
.
Heaven is now a lowercase word.
.
We throw it around in our mouths
hoping it might taste good
in this cavity or that.
But it remains putrid.
We puke it up.
.
The divine unsettles our grown-up stomachs.
.
Seize fewer days, then,
and focus on the moments—
the heartbeats,
a new love,
how safe we felt
in our mothers’ wombs.
Brilliant.