Mexican Heaven

forget heaven & its promises of gold—

everything we make on this planet

has one purpose. every poem, every act

of photosynthesis, every protest. if heaven

is real, then its gates are closed to us. maybe

heaven is just a museum of all the life

we have extincted. we are death

machines building death machines. in life

we are useless to stop death. in death, we arrive

at god’s house—only to find god torturing dolls.

we wanted to be made in god’s image—we imagined

gold & not the melting that gold requires.