2 Chronicles 29:5*

We’ve become more concerned
with the tattoos on the temple
than the people rotting under its beams,
who sit beneath a stained-glass microscope,
craving nature and quick-fix saviors,
prayers humming against the walls
in the absence of truth.

We sluice ourselves with greed
and strip the faith down to a code:
some words of hate and violent virtue
trimming the ancient slates,
pasted over the commands to love one another.

Only those who have gotten it all right
can read this new law.

And the rest sit in darkness,
having blinded themselves by too closely inspecting
the brightest redemption filth
we could speak into existence.

I stare out the double-paned window
of seat 9F, overlooking this
dollhouse world.

Some things below us are only
noticeable through a ginger-ale-laced
dream perspective.

My eyes trace the geometry of the boulevards
and buildings and baseball diamonds
that appear to have been drawn from above.

The motherboard cities, with ports and control
panels that never dim, cast orders
to faceless men.

Parks and forests speckle the firework sprawl
with inky patches of greenery where electricity dies
and minds and feet can wander.

I see squid-armed lakes and coral trees,
schools of cars in an asphalt sea, full of people
who forget that anyone else exists.

The world seems so beautiful and movable,
like blocks waiting to be knocked down,
rearranged, rebuilt.

But then: rooftop angles,
sidewalk divisions. Buildings rise
and the tarmac appears.

Wings shudder and wheels strike asphalt–
a collision you can never fully brace yourself for–
jarring me back inside my own head.

And I look over to the woman beside me,
only to find her still sleep-drooling
on a half-read SkyMall.

You were the only grandmother I knew
who kept her hair long:
grey-white and slicked back
in a tight knot against your skull
with one black streak above your ear.

During your last visit the bun broke loose,
mane toppling down your spine.
My seven-year-old self peeked behind you,
expecting to see spiders
creeping out of the hoary webbing,
awaiting your command to crawl
into the tv set
my pillowcase
the toilet bowl,
hatching spider babies
until their army seized the whole house
and drove me out.

But instead,
it was your legs walking toward me,
your fingers clawing up my arm,
your lipstick-smudged mouth invading,
fogging my glasses,
whisper-growling:
Don’t look at me like that!
You’re lucky your mother’s upstairs
or I’d put the paddle on ya.
I think I would have preferred
the spiders.

Later, you took your cigarettes outside
and sat beneath the window.
Smoke drifted up the pane,
and I imagined you stirring it forth
from a gurgling cauldron
that sparked and seethed–
its smoky potion scent
of cobra venom and boiled hearts
lingering in your
witch’s locks.

You make my heart
           feel like a sunfish–
                      hungry, propulsive
        as it chases a worm
             it doesn’t realize
      is already
dead.

I am fetal curled, alone
in this too-big bed,
my mind wandering into
the museum of that morning:

The sunrise peeked through the blinds
light hop-scotching across
the freckles on your shoulder blades
and I wanted you to wake up
but didn’t want to wake you
hoped the bouncing beams
would warm you to life

You slept soundly
so I just lied there, memorizing
the pattern of your beard
the shape of your ear
the curve of your lips

And now on this morning
I stare out my window, knowing
you are some five thousand miles away
but we still sleep beneath the same blanket
of sky

Facebook tells me you have someone new
or really, not-so-new, as the dates on these photos
reveal that she was around long before
I even tied my shoes to leave.

Meanwhile, yours were fully laced, giving me
the runaround, and I see she was at your marathon
on Sunday, standing in the morning cold for 3 hours
just to watch your chicken legs shuffle across a finish line.

I’m sure she kept plenty warm though, wearing those
fingerless gloves she knits and sells on Etsy,
overpriced, with buttons that don’t attach to anything
while you’re attached to her.

A quick Google returns her MySpace page,
updated about two years too recently, and a YouTube video
of a song she wrote– two oscillating chords,
her voice trilling something about little birds.

The two of you are building tent forts held up by Christmas lights
and making s’mores in the living room fireplace
and she comments “if that’s not love...”
Trust me, sweetie– it’s not.

We parked at the service route junction
just beyond midnight, headlights cut,
pretending we didn’t notice
the clock approaching curfew
on my last night in town.

Through the sunroof,
the stars looked like a dull reflection
of the tree-framed skyline.
We stared out in silence, our January breath
clouding the windshield.

You were the first to move:
your hand smacked the radio
to silence Third Eye Blind’s
“How’s It Going to Be,”
but it was too late.

The strumming autoharp and refrains of
“you don’t know me anymore”
had already filled the car with longing
for a love we hadn’t lost yet.