Fair Flying

I ask, as I pass through the door, Staring at stained glass. I’ve always thought of church as Heaven On Earth. You’re not there; you’re everywhere, Omnipresent. How does it feel to be holy? How am I here, stuck in rain on a Sunday, While you swim in stormclouds? You’re shrouded in rainbows I can’t even see. Are you still with me? I look for you in mirrors, Through wet windows, In bathroom stalls, In hallways and hills and rooftops. I probably won’t stop until we’re both Sitting in some random field on a Sunday, Laughing at the halos we don’t have.

We sit on the bottom of a slippery sea, Watching whales waltz like it’s nothing, As if they’re flying. Their fins are wings. We see what no one else sees: the bubbles Flowing upward from below, the emanating glow Of anemone’s shadow. We’re dark creatures, spilling our souls into full bowls, Overflowing and leaking. The real sin is that we can’t hold our breath for as long as we think; Our lungs are made of tar, marring our bodies, jarring the system. If we hold hands, perhaps we’ll regain rhythm. We’ll siphon ourselves from pearlescent shells and become liquid.