All Saints' Day
Let us not speak of the heaven
we think we see
beyond the lining of this life.
Let our lips purse
where our praying hands meet them,
but never open to utter a plea.
Let us think of this world
in these quiet moments
as the heaven we can make
out of the broken
glass sky and over-tilled land.
Let us not speak of the augmented soul
that others shine a halo over
and pronounce them something
greater than human.
Let us look into our fractures
running a finger along the cracks
to see where value first arises.
Let us ascend the slow ladder
to our own better lives
which circle above our heads
like unanswered prayers.
All the saints knew the same thing:
it was never about the promises
of a clouded heaven—
everything was about living
(and yes, dying)
for this gift of blue and green
in the vacuum of spinning stellar arms
and their devourers.
Here on the edge of campaign banners
and comfortable old lies
we cannot lay for one night
on the truth of the hard earth.
The rich men are flooding into the churches, holding their gold embossed bibles, crossing their fingers behind their backs and they sing the old hymnals. They pray for excess while in subsequent pews the starved bellies are embarrassed to gurgle in the face of god. These sunday-suited men will speak of your bootstraps and something within you that is broken and worse yet, lacks the desire to be fixed. These are the ones who stand outside of any true heaven. Do not think of your body as a wafer to be eaten. Do not think of your blood as wine. A house of the lord is wherever you sleep tonight. It has no gold or wealth. The closer to dirt you are, the nearer your god awaits.
Let us not speak of all the heavens
each of us thinks we know
will open up to us upon our deaths.
Everything we need for heaven
is around us and within
no matter where we go.
© Dancing Bear
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