Black Under Heaven Poem by Greta Bellamacina

everything lives unnerved
tiny cups and scissors hungover
lilies in heaven marching in glass on the table
our child arranging the sky, sleeping between the doorway
blue garments an ocean on the bedroom floor-

your scent a kind of black under heaven
all raging and soft,
breaking the tracks of summer
a chapel in the fourth wall
always lit up and nursing

i have become larger in it
a new kind of warm ash
burning up the edges
and bathing out the reality TV government
I have become more winged

we barely notice the ceiling falling onto our bed
emptying out the ariel stars
that have tracked our whole lives til now
walked with us through hysteria
and trees made into empty news

we live in one room
the BT Tower our lighthouse,
we have become two mothers
we are unearthed, dosing in the scent
that is an eternal morning.