The Child Is Heaven

You came, masquerade in woman. You were a spirit adjacent to God and the angel spilled from projection below my waistline. But beyond these four walls call home You walked the boorish sidewalks. I found you in comfortable wardrobe. Your hieroglyphics are seen in grottos filled with bat droppings. Who are you behind the woman I found in Freeport August wind? Your hair, alive like curtains in the draft, motioned to me. For three slow years we walked the sea front, fronting; we kissed. Your tongue in my mouth, in public places (before the huge sea cows) painting cartouche in a new cave. I turn from mother and father, like I did Jesus. They could read you like the big black Bible. I missed you … on wintry days. The furnace was warmhearted and we rubbed our hands together. Hands will do anything to rouse a feeling, like masturbation and tickling a dirty armpit for a giggle. We were living a sex life, outside of other senses. I never cover my mouth; you were everywhere – the men’s room, the men’s night outs, rum bars, and in the cemetery; on that flat grave. Now when I see them … my words cut my tongue off and my lips are stitched together with shame. My heart was damaged, the intercourse gone, but the home is unbroken. The child is heaven.