POETRY
Heaven
by Leah Bobet

Every night as the moon goes down
Hands on your body, hands on your brow.
His hands are hot.
They burn; they scar.
This could be heaven on earth,
(this could be hell)
he says.

Do not wash with your sisters any more
In the river that passes your house:
your body is covered with dawn-red scars
(or something else, something between;
worse than simple damnation)
Your face is seared with his kisses.

They have names for these dreams
I'm not a dream —
Rituals to bar and banish
You've read them all. You know them all:
the salt on the nightstand, the candle unlit.
(at least hell is definable; you could deal with that)

Every culture has a story about this dream.
Read them all. Learn them all.
Recite the demon-names before you sleep.
— I love you I love you —
(— oh god I need you —)
Carry them inside your chest.

Your skin is puckered:
— I swear —
It burns.
(you realized once that all real things burn)
His skin smells of woodsmoke;
His breath tastes of fire.
Sometime, you'll have to make a decision.

— this could be heaven,
he says.

(I know.)