God of Destruction
Joanna Valente


Somewhere in Brooklyn
angels are fucking

in the ocean, but there is no
home in the ocean

who knew there would be so much
blood

in a seashell.

*

He folded his map
of the solar system, threw
it into sea when he left
home

through a piece
of a broken milk bottle.

The wall of sound plays
when a man & a woman
36 inches separated carve a boy
into stone

sundial, can’t see sky can’t
keep watch.

His hands were 5 once,
learning how to kneel
inside St Patrick’s

in the dark inside a bone
priest’s skull are countless fireflies
scattered & fucking

in the wreckage of a car
crash, a dollar-store poem grows

roots gray & full of lesions,
says,

I don’t know how to miss you.

Within a pulse, an erection,
then the page, then a sext.

No one is outside raking the leaves.
Then, the L is delayed,
love story.

Then swimming in a gelatinous
ocean no waves, just purple
light depending on where you

float—every corner a new
world, a new word veiled
by a man & a woman, one hand
throwing rocks to make a grave

the other making love
digging through the sand

some men will bury anything
like a grave.

 

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