She talks about heaven as if it doesn’t exist.
She sees the world as an expanse,
where our entire beings are smaller than our pupils.
In the burst of stars
combusting anxieties across the galaxy,
I stop putting factions of what is right or wrong
in people’s mouths. She believes there is a world
a part from humanity that should benefit.
She reminds me that the world is alive
tingling in the veins of leaves,
and on algae gripping onto coral bodies.
She makes heaven sound otherworldly,
Out of place for the bound book –
I forget to open. I forget to search nose down,
As I’ve been taught. I felt religion came in waves,
I teleported through peace intervals,
and smiled when I saw the earth as not mine.
Instead, I, in origin belong to the ground, the sea,
the duty of sustaining life other than my own.
She speaks as if heavens don’t matter,
because indulgence doesn’t matter if the earth is hurting.
She makes heaven sound like another planet,
out there orbiting as a moon.
She makes heaven sound so old,
That the clouds remember the grazes of prayers,
my people already sang when they came crammed in ships.
She makes heaven sound like a body,
washed and wrapped in burial cloth
waiting for the younger generations to come
pay respects. She makes heaven sound fleeting as a
shadow over the grass on summer day.