Try as she might,
avoidable vices
Whisked her away, billows of smoke
hung from her lungs with retractable claws,
Vices made a threshold of her throat,
soaring through—
her voice box, a purgatory,
hell reached her lungs, a prison
but outside
bells, heavenly—
auditory halation,
humans humming hymns
hands hanging from harps of discords
A haphazard rhythm,
no one is listening.
No one likes how it sounds, so
they all imagine their own sounds.
Heaven becomes
a collapsing delusion we babble on about,
But in the noise, unavoidably,
the Black girl,
in her search for God
found God outside today.
He was kept in a plastic display case.
She wanted to touch God,
He looked too expensive.
What if she managed to break Him Open?
Break Him out?
