Before the lamb leaped into the arms of the womanwith seven diadems and orange groves flowered beneaththe mountains' hems, our hearts were forged in the firethat could never be extinguished. But then our hearts folded into boats as the waters rose, and … | Luisa A. Igloria May 21 | 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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