We're All Born Knowing All (edit)

[makeshift]

All Dogs go to Heaven 

In summer, 
you hold the sun, whole
rays whir softly
in your arms.
You feel the golden
retriever’s fur grow cold
between your fingers,
see it floating above you
like an ember fading
upward in air.  
 
In autumn,
you strain to remember
the sun in Sunday school.
Beneath the doctrine,
the dogma, and the deity
the world is shaded
an unfamiliar mauve.
A preacher preaches that a dog
can never jump through the hoops of life
and land in heaven.
 
In Winter,
you hear a white quiet crack
beneath the principle's electric voice.
His words fall like ash
over the assembly;
lecturing on attendance,
absence, and a peer passing
over. A moment of silence.
 
In spring,
nothing grows back.
Each new leaf only impersonates
last years deadfall.
This star is an imposter. 




Original

I


Dogs go to heaven,
the preacher must’ve forgot
when he told you otherwise.


The words burn


a year later
when a boy misses the bus stop
but catches a noose.


Did the clergyman not recognize
the napalm in his breath
when he laid his voice on you—
your own hands can only bring you hell.


The world burns


before it is the world
and after.


II


In summer,
you hold the sun, whole
rays whir softly
In your arms.
You feel the Golden
Retriever’s fur grow cold
between your fingers,
see it floating above you
like an ember fading
Upward in air.  

In autumn,
You strain to remember
the sun In Sunday school.
Beneath the doctrine,
the dogma, and the deity
the world is shaded
an unfamiliar mauve.
The preacher preaches that a dog
can never jump through the hoops of life
And land in heaven.

In Winter,
you hear a white quiete crack
beneath the principles electric voice.
His words fall like fat ash
over the assembly;
lecturing  on attendance,
absence, and a peer passing
over. A moment of silence.

In spring,
Nothing grew back
Each new leaf impersonating
last years deadfall.
This sun is an imposter.