Everywhere I go now there are chandeliers,
ice tears dangling beneath my eyeshadow and
tinkling their silence against the waterproof
mascara of the night sky.
I do not grow tired of crystal facets, not even when
walking under the knowing glass eyes of a
middle-class lamp showroom, winking "Come
dine beneath us - invest as in a child's education,
as in a grandfather clock, as in civilization itself."
Because when my eyes grow tired of the pendulums
that shudder on my lashes or the cheap earrings lit by
cheap bulbs that jaundice my eyes, I know the remedy
lies in yet another chandelier.
Salvation glints in the tiers of spectrum-splitting jewels
that fall from the clouds when God craves clarity, that prove
beauty is no idle myth, invented by the pale statues of
18th century poet-suicides.
It is no mistake that the sun only shows her color
through drops of rain. Everyone loves a chandelier.