for Julia
There is no sun in Hell
no rain, of course, not even
earth, in the earthly sense, just
a firmament on which to orient
not up from down so much as
then from now
*
and it hurts, of course, it seethes
and burns, breaking the black rock
and digging in, shredding what
once was skin, her damned fingers
worn to nubs, like grinding teeth
*
to gums, like glass
under her spirit nails. Even still,
she's got nothing but time to wrest
surrender, rage open mouths
obsidian cracks, to thumb her fruit
down eternity's throat
*
There are no seeds in Hell
but she came here plump
as a pomegranate with all the good
she never sowed. She spits her
stillborn tomorrows, seeps blood pink
*
regret in every hole
and breathes
intention like prayer, ignites
miasmic air, incites
hellflowers to bloom
*
There is no life in Hell, of course
but there are gardens
for her, blossoms of patience
and penitence, pinwheeling rows
of firedrop petals, blazing yellow hearts, and
I'm sorrys blue as sulfur flames, blue
as she remembers
hope to be