Before the war we bury the windows
Before we bury the windows we take them down
The tallest of us altar boys
lifts a purple blade from a frozen robe
& holds it with both hands
before handing it to me
at the bottom of the ladder
I don’t understand how anyone can make
a shard of glass a weapon
blood would draw its borders on both of us
my hand your chest
The boy peels a red plate from the flat dusk
behind Christ
We’re told heaven is beautiful but I think
I’ll miss parsnips coriander
sky tempering the aluminum gutters
of our houses
The boy hands me two hard fingers
brought together in benediction
then the bow of a halo like a bottom lip
The stained glass makes its way underground
& makes way for sunlight
There’s a basement where we wait out the war
We touch each other’s cheeks light with hair
I think I’ll miss my nose how water
damage makes cologne of the missals
contributor
contributor
Matthew Girolami holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where he was a Teaching-Writing Fellow. His work appears or is forthcoming in The American Poetry Review, Horsethief, Two Peach, and elsewhere. His reviews appear or are forthcoming in Jacket2 and Poetry International Online. He lives in Iowa City and teaches at the University of Iowa.
