Shannon Wagner: Lore (III)

The inside of God is black.
Even before His trachea caught fire
it was black and stained our sleeves.

We wear the dust of Him
anywhere dust can get.
Our teeth are black, our hands black,
our cuts black and rust,
our corneas starch-white.
We can finger the crag of Him
beneath our skin, a fuel we can’t burn.

When a miner kisses his wife
the black passes to her lips,
and licking them she mixes it smooth
with her saliva, drinks it down
to her unborn baby.
Her child will spend its life
burning the depressed coal,
an anthracite heritage.

It is written: God swallowed a chain of canaries,
tapped on His hollow chest and said:
Carry this light in your pockets.

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