If I believed that angels licked
the corners of my book pages,
maybe I’d believe in divination
as a gradient of godliness.
But you run away
from your own words.
I wish I could find that god
you said knows. That she is
everything turning stars.
You stare into the sun,
but you tell yourself not
to watch your cornea burn.
You could walk, incarnate. A god
barefoot on concrete, toes
guttered with rainbow water,
or oil-slicked blood.
It will spill from skies and lips.
I know
how you feel about the water cycle.
Precipitation on your glass dries
your lips. Not thirsty.
You lay outside in curves of desert sand.
There’s a freedom in forgetting
to drink, you murmur between the slope
of your hips and the dips of your neck,
where the droplets slide and dry
before the sun can rise.
This sting is the slice of angel’s
wing on my cheek, and it is just
to lay where everyone lays,
with the sun in their eyes,
skyward by mouth.
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