Revelation

Before the lamb leaped 
into the arms of the woman

with seven diadems and orange 
groves flowered beneath

the mountains' hems, our hearts 
were forged in the fire

that could never be 
extinguished. But then 

our hearts folded into boats 
as the waters rose, and all the fish

in the world recalled the bones
they'd once given up to fill out 

our forms. We've made our own
way since then—trying to keep 

the flicker of heat alive,
trying not to surrender to the call

of the owl or the mourning
dove. When we stand

in a shower of rain 
or falling leaves, when  

we're struck with the gold 
of certain days, our hearts 

burst from within; our faces,
tongued by the kiss of time.