refrigerator 

tell me we can survive another.
the cow comes apart in continents
& i place my heart in plastic wrap
like any other meat. i'm studying
methods of salvation 
that don't involve jesus or god.
think of strawberries growing
in winter. their plastic mobile homes 
& fingers pulling each from their necks.
nothing, not even sweetness 
is sacred. if i had a garden 
i would teach my flowers
to bloom only in the dark. 
keep your faces & your tongues separate.
i do want what i was promised 
in the gold hurry of a church.
to be lifted like a basket 
of oranges towards a cool shining attic. 
only i want there to be no conditions.
if the question is whether or not
i've been holy. i have not.
i have never tried. my life is 
spiritual like the mushroom's ankles.
lifting them from a bowl in the fridge.
remembering they once told trees
their folk stories. eating their stories
before walking out into the early dark
of february in my black rain boots.
i consider the ice box in the sky.
angels wearing parkas beside 
tubs of yogurt. something always seemed
too sterile for me. i do not believe in hell
but i think it must be a garden.
wild though--not agrarian. 
plants kissing each other. 
our wandering hands. caressing while standing
in the warm soil. nothing to be 
packaged or promised. nothing without stains.
oh how i want to be saved
by a place like that.