— Rajiv Mohabir

Listen, you are not
              you, but swaying,
                            moving lips of praise

and trumpet. Once
              the incense curls
                            where is the smoke? Where

is the trumpet’s note
              in the kingdom of this world?
                            You’ve lost yourself

in a triplet bracket.
              Even the king stands,
                            un-persons his mantle

while the symphony swells,
              you remember the tenor
                            line holds resurrection

in a dissonance
              that unstitches you
                            and you throw your arms up,

to a release of breath
              and doves—

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