Everywhere I go 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.