Having been always (before and after everything), without limits of time, as if in existence without attachment, untethered from happenings rooted to temporality.
The body is made of many arches and windows. Enter this structure, the entrances to the many houses of god.
And, yet, each morning a fireheart grief in the body coming out of sleep. The listening to the smoke as it fills and weeps inside the chest, choking strength out hands weighted, dangling. We wonder where else it lives before it fills the body up. We assume it comes inside through the hole that promises invasion.
This layering of forms pushes the body toward abstraction. We have stolen madness from the white people. An Asian white man will call us a crazy bitch in a text. But we have long done been free. Coffee is brought to our body bedside on a silver tray. We are unrepresentable. We sip into the griefmouth.