The Queen of All Your Tomorrows

Only fools rush
toward a finish

flushed and glancing behind them
to see what cruel beast nips
at the hem of the heavy memory
of her gowns.

Let your soul fly,
like your mother
or your father,
toward heaven
and that faith that carried them
to the end of their joy.

Imagine you have wings, or
better yet, are carried out of the city
by angels,
far from the bottles
and the labels
and the bodies tangled
and lashing out at God,

and release the earth
from your white-knuckled hold
and fall into the air
like you own it;

like you are the queen
of all your tomorrows.