by Lee Deininger
ain’t got shit on you I know because I have friends there
they say every angel is a cherub chubby baby and man
I was a lumpy-headed fluffy up top Michelin-bottomed
ugly ass baby. But Heaven is theirs. When I try to get a word in they burst
out with feathers & I can’t get a word through the flutter can’t see
a thing through their dusty white wings.
When I woke up and saw white this morning I thought it was Heaven because it doesn’t
snow in April. The shitty commute that follows reminded me of how good the spring is
after you decided to put away your winter boots early.
Heaven so clean you don’t even have to wipe.
Heaven so clean you won’t even know the whole show is run by babies
Heaven so clean you won’t even know what dirt or death tastes like.
When I write about Greif without using the word Grief I talk about a woman
growing stones in her belly the fruit of her love ripens slow
like pearls slow because what is Grief without holding someone’s dirt
like it isn’t absence what would the snakes in the garden have to eat
if she didn’t Greif?
Heaven so clean you won’t even smell the coal under the floorboards
or sisters crackling wonderful with Grief.
I know Heaven is clean because that stubborn bum in Florida never said
sorry in the end & they didn’t let him in. Ask me about his backbone he
never knew a man worth being sorry to never asked for forgiveness
when the cops dropped him on his back street sleeping
on concrete like a rack of nails
brought him to a hospital removed a whole vertebra
claw hammer smooth sent him on his way like a baby with a sore tooth.
Rob never felt the toes on his left foot again but he still calls for money
and I know the voice because he’s always been my uncle.
Heaven so clean even when the kids piss themselves laughing
because they know someone’s always gonna foot the bill.
Heaven ain’t got shit on you because even my lumpy baby head knows
the world molds craters into my doughy brain & pockets of dark
into the smooth & light gets that much more vivid.
I can lay with my face in the rug a heap of garbage ripening under
the sink with the sun on the back of my head and it feels
Lee is almost a master of microbiology. He knows some ants feed fungi, and those fungi feed their ants. He’s adding poetry to the mix to see if it’s all somehow connected.