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Quote by Jill Alexander Essbaum

“When the Kingdom Comes Your mother is not your mother, she is something else, a bird nesting in the heart of a hollowed out tree, a saint whose skin is cool and soft as apple-flesh, the will of God. And your brothers are not your brothers, they are the ash that is all of us, scattered in its periphery, unfortunate multitude. Your sister, your lover, your friend none of these are yours. The stone belongs only to the river which bled it smooth. What you call your face, that canvas of mercy which smiles with grief at even November's drizzle and chill, is the face of someone else, someone to come, good tidings, the Christ child in a stable, cooing as Mary tends such tiny hands. It is her face that seems so familiar, the answer to everything whetting the tip of your tongue. The hairs on your head, they belong only to themselves, and when they are done with such a manner of belonging, they offer themselves to stars which outnumber them galacticly. Everything you think is yours is not. A father had two sons, and one of them was heavy with desire. Friend—what's lost is found, forever. You will wear the very best robe. You will wear rings on every finger of each hand. And they are not your hands. They are God's hands and She formed you with them Herself turning tricks with clay until finally the sand sang alleluia, and it was good. These hands, She will hold like treasure all the way to Paradise, where under the glimmer of the moon and the spark of light that fuels every prayer, She keeps her family. And we will all be there. And we will all be.”

Quote by Jill Alexander Essbaum

Book:Heaven

Work

Heaven

This book delves into the various interpretations of heaven across different cultures and religions, examining its role in human belief and the search for spiritual fulfillment. more

Author

Jill Alexander Essbaum
Jill Alexander Essbaum

Jill Alexander Essbaum is an American poet born in 1971. Her work is celebrated for its unique style and profound insights into everyday life. more

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“Thirty-Three If the martyr is made when the breaking heart breaks open, and one holds in the crib of her palm the ghost of something as singular as last night's argument, then what was mystery is worse—the advent of the end. They sleep in the sea of a bed, blue as breath, the tangle of needle-net holding them close. And if they dance, it is like lanterns on a lake, as nothing lasts for very long, so frail, those passive vessels. Imagine the elemental glow and a city of stars still forming, the work in progress of heaven like the swirl of color in a vanity rose: where one shade ends the other may begin, or not, its own red. She scowls her lover's scowl. When Christ comes down from the mountain, he marches to Jerusalem unaware. This is how the dead get by, and the dying make due: like anyone, they are preserved with such affection as to disenchant their grief.”

“Rib I frown because you frustrate me, your wooly, muffled voice, and the dishes that will not do themselves. I have traded word for weary word with you and come up short so many sentences, that I am broke from paying attention. Maybe I have treated you badly. I am sorry if I have treated you badly, but other men have worn me out, and I no longer make love, it will not last. So if I linger at the arcs of your chest, we shall call it mere tenderness, or homecoming. And if I happen to write sonnets in the honor of us, I will not drown you in burdens of marigolds, rather clay, a kiss or two, some serpents looking on. I am near useless here, and if I cross myself, it is only because I am that lost, with nothing left to do for my hands.”