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July 1, 2012, vol 8, no 2

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Penny Harter

Seventh Heaven

What do we know of one heaven, let alone all seven? Some of us think we have visited, our lives slipping sideways into death and back, our flesh grown phosphorescent.

moonless night—
the child fills her jar
with fireflies

We are iridescent, borne on currents of the atmosphere as we drift through a geography we think we know.

seaside road—
we scan the sawgrass
for a marsh fox

Seventh heaven—perhaps that's where you are these days, having migrated through matter dense and dark, becoming more and more translucent until in that high destination, you are light.

without looking
the fortune teller finds
a star in my palm