by Jadyn Marshall
All of paradise
is a place.
It’s not a place
Where angels harp,
Or where the virtuous
Spoil their rewards.
It’s not where you find
Your aunt or first dog
And it’s not
Where you meet Jesus.
Paradise is
(If you believe in such things)
Milk
Thrown out ‘fore it’s spoiled.
It’s silence at noon
When the air is alone,
And all of our daydreams
Just seem overblown.
It’s the color of crystal,
The scent of regret,
The stars in the daytime
Caught up in our net.
And you’d think we’d be guilty
For having so much,
But who can imagine
The things they can’t touch?
Paradise is foreign,
But it’s stuck under your nails,
And you don’t even know
Its name.
