Their disappointment is mine. But I have
made this- the weight of what they are,
how I've changed them. They've become
what I am; they will not forgive me.
Exiled from our beds, tonight reciting
our worries- the way light detaches from
our faces , how strongly darkness desires
our bodies, whose image shapes us.
O Maker of Stars, when we burst and die,
will you miss us?
When violent hands part the skies,
whose fingers turn its violet pages,
our bellies tight against the fires
crawling skin to earth, lips to prayer-
will you save us?
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