These Cells Are Passages

Consider the small curls of light,
then consider trial, the chemicals,
the particles or waves.
Then consider the plastic contours
of your mind, your mouth,
and bite your fucking tongue.
Origami flowers decorate the windowsill,
tinfoil colored with permanent marker.
Little hands folded those corners.
Please don't give us
the "God needed another angel" line,
because it doesn't help.
Just hold your children,
hold those little hands.
Hold the light close to you,
let it dance outside
the frame of your grief,
then let it curl inside,
warm and shining, like tinfoil
heating gradually, its star shape
creating prisms, echos,
repeating light.