It’s not the stone that lets go, but the mortar.
The heat creeps between its particles, pushes
them apart to make room for the holy spirit.
My mother’s womb decomposes in a medical
waste landfill & the house where I grew up now
homes another family. Life has scattered
from the center of town. As the spire collapses
the world gasps; our memory unearthed in the
release, the lack, the unplanning. Cross my legs
and toes turn blue as all of me at the moment
of my birth. Now that we know the world
will end in fire, not ice, I cut the inside of my
cheek on my forked tongue again & again.
The iron of my blood tastes like home.