It is not that the heavens open,
that the doors are flung wide.
Or if they are, it is also
an absolute narrowing,
as if, stepping into a corridor,
you have already arrived
at its distant end.

It is not that the flower unfolds,
unless it both
unfolds and collapses,
blooms and withers
in the same motion.

It is not that the galaxies spiral
outward, except in the way that water
spirals outward as it rushes in.
We only see it do so because we rely
on something as limited as light.

The shaking and the tears
do not start until afterwards.

You will not see what has happened.

You will only know why you are crying,
that you are mourning every moment
you have ever spent, every moment
you will ever spend
withholding love.

appeared in the fall 2007 issue of The Handmaiden