Black Un­der Heaven

The London Magazine - - GRETA BELLAMACINA - Greta Bel­la­macina

ev­ery­thing lives un­nerved tiny cups and scis­sors hun­gover lilies in heaven march­ing in glass on the ta­ble our child ar­rang­ing the sky, sleep­ing be­tween the door­way blue gar­ments an ocean on the bed­room floor-

your scent a kind of black un­der heaven all rag­ing and soft, break­ing the tracks of sum­mer a chapel in the fourth wall al­ways lit up and nurs­ing

I have be­come larger in it a new kind of warm ash burn­ing up the edges and bathing out the re­al­ity TV gov­ern­ment I have be­come more winged

we barely no­tice the ceil­ing fall­ing onto our bed emp­ty­ing out the ariel stars that have tracked our whole lives til now walked with us through hys­te­ria and trees made into empty news

we live in one room the BT Tower our light­house, we have be­come two moth­ers we are un­earthed, dos­ing in the scent that is an eter­nal morn­ing.

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