in the temple of broken drinking glasses

in the temple of broken drinking glasses
we were all terrible children.
we had worn our bare feet
down to the bone & had clacked 
as we ran across the kitchen floor of our home.
we had thrown dishes like frisbees 
& used the butcher knives to carve our names
in the walls. we were just children 
making efforts to not disappear. 
i can't remember anymore 
whether it was mother or father who banished us.
their voices blur together.
a thick creamy whirlpool of dissapointment. 
their tongues like wooden spoons as they spoke.
they packaged us in a block of wood 
& drove far past the horizon to get to the temple.
we slept, leaning on each other for the drive.
awakened by the sound of cracking
we tried to peer out but could only see ourselves.
the our ghost reflections staring down at us.
they dropped us off there 
& we heard the car unspool back to our town. 
the fear faded quickly,
we loved the structure for its breaking.
i held my brother's hand as we entered.
it looked just like our church only built
from broken drinking glasses stacked every direction.
each day, shards came down from 
a shifting ceiling. the glass in our hair.
the glass between our fingers 
& our teeth. we clinked as we played.
our blood slipped out easily
in ribbons & yarn.
we sucked cuts clean. we forgot
about our parents & thrived in the temple.
became worshipers of it,
mending the walls when they needed restacking.
the other children who came 
were the same as us. we became sibling 
of glass. we taught each other
to sing, our voices turning clear 
& bright through the shards. 
the more we loved the place
the farther it drifted from being discovered.
maybe our parents searched for us.
maybe they drove & drove. maybe they were
full of regret. when we prayed 
we talked amoungst each other about
how we thought god would look.
we agreed she-he was a great shattered wine glass--
all the pieces spread to every single corner
of the earth. in the night
we curled up with each other, making nests
of the glass. we knew the scrapes would come 
as we tossed & turned. dusk made the temple glow
a citrus orange. it reminded me of a fruit bowl
on our parent's counter. my thumbs prying rind
from orange flesh. we missed eating.
we missed the television. we missed 
the smell of bath soap. our exile was 
as long as we wanted to make it. 
we did not want to stay & we did not want to leave.
my brother filled his pockets with glass 
& wept. i told him we should return 
to be children again. we should walk 
away from the glass walls we loved
& see how far away our backyard was.
we did. we stood for the last time in glass 
& noticed our house as a speck in the distance.
i carried my brother on my back
& as we went the glass trailed from our pockets
until we were only our bodies again.
we stood on the porch & the wind chimes there
loosened our bones. we looked back
only for a moment
& could not see the temple.