I cling to his shirt
Like a young grape
Plucked from a hearty vine
Dragging with it the stem,
They urge her to check off more boxes
That each one will serve as a conduit
An umbilical cord from Heaven
To Jerusalem,
A reminder
So that each piece – cornea,
Kidney, marrow, tissue,
Will be another small peephole
Through which one could look
To observe a diorama of paper mache
And flesh,
It is bright and warm
A screen door keeps the flies outside,
A single cloud drifts lifelessly across the sky
Punctured here and there,
Intensified light
Radiating through,
I hold on tight to cover the missing spots.
