Somewhere to Never Grow

I couldn’t find you: somewhere deep a desert; but I searched,

and there you were: picking peaches, and praising your

husband. I kneeled, a puddle of tears, and made mud. I

molded a sculpture, and pitched rocks at stars. You came,

ever to soothe a palm. I loved you as one pleading for 

holiness. You smiled, eyes filled with sulfur; and devils

tiptoed our garden. How to love, I begged? An earth opened,

and we entered—filled with guilt, and tattooed regrets. We

tore infinity; but only to return. I love you more, sailing

through disappointments. And just last week, I received a

missive—screaming our worm. It’s ever a mystery: to hear

you in ritual: to feel your voice. Indeed, I’m burning softly,

and wiping tears. But gods are watching, even praying,

gesturing to goddesses; and we shall never grow. This is our

death; but ever we love, trekking mirrors, and rocking gently.