Heaven Being All Ice Now, Sing Me, Sister, Your Little Song of Fire I. The green bùbá of my country felt silly in that spectral white of heaven. But it was all Border Control would allow—the cloth on my neck, futile against a fury of snow that did not fall like water off a duck’s back, but stuck instead like leeches to my wine- dark skin and sank their hundred fangs of ice. I could not speak of the inherent racism that followed from earth, the obsidian jealousy. On earth, birds-of-paradise have long blue tails. What a shame to have missed such brilliant foreshadowing. The music of heaven is the blues. No one here will hold my frostbitten hands; no one here will pull me back into the warm blanket of human viscera I, in earthspeak, call a body— a life. Heaven is the largest polar desert of the afterlife, though you may think, first, of hell. In this pleistocene epoch, Prometheus, having burned in 27,760 degrees of god's lightning bolt looks at humans with no fucks or fennel fronds to give.…