Heaven
____________________________________

Some of it was like dying, and some of the dying
Was like myth: the afterlife predicted in tapestry
Or dog rose strangling stained glass.

In such light we lay down. Columbine and a bridle
Of damp rope. Butterflies lifting, prismed, pitiless.

In practical terms, we were children—mortal
And possessed. We folded easily into handbags and teacups,
Leaned into a father’s mood. Nighttime

Became motif, patterns of shadow crippling the wall
Like two trolls tugging on one another’s beards
Until they wore their skins on the inside,

Nothing touchable without. We were told early about the sky,
How beyond its crystal vault lived water. This was our blue—

Everything lovely and thunderous; every someday flood
Plaited with celestial fish, with seaweed radiant and constellated.
We dreamed it down again and again,

Held our breath, kicked into the mermaid firmament,
Wet glamour eroding our edges, grafting
Us to each other and the splendid millstone world.

From Stumble, Gorgeous by Paula McLain

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331

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