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.

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