When this first awful happiness passes, when love
is a sleep and not a thirst,
when each expects the other's daily miracle
and we're no longer finding allegories in the toast
that one burns too long, the other not enough,
then it might be safe to be admired
by the junior gods coming up at parties
to our brilliant routine,
the gods of small temptations like moonlight
in a wine glass or the silver teeth
of a new zipper, an opening
into a voice that says it won't be like the others.
But the gods are all the same, we've learned that
each time we fried eggs in the palace of desire,
ripped the new tape off old boxes, hung our sad, soft clothes
side by side behind another peaceful door.
The gods never get past the first burn
of their ice bodies on each other's tongue,
the tearing that turns them back to flesh.
How they would pull us into their museum,
their arms broken off, reaching to be adored.
A journal of narrative writing.