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.