I have nothing holy to say.
I paint his face with ashes
from my cigarettes,
tiny crosses on his forehead.
He says my fingers
smell like clementines,
but his are covered
in motor oil and sea salt.
I tell him about my mother
after surgery, about her face
like a moon and my life lost
in her round cheeks.
I want to visit the cemetery,
find a headstone meant for me.
I will rub it onto paper
with a copper crayon.
I will remember
how it hurt to grow wings.