Resolved

March 9, 2015

I am but a child.

When the angel of death takes me to

her breast, I will recall like a cassette

an all-consuming void at the heart of the memory

And this is what I wanted to touch:

the burgeoning tendrils erupting from my stomach

And I will know forgiveness

Without a God

Without an image

Nothing but the recognition, conceived

In shimmering  tapestry.

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