on my father’s death day I do not write I wear a dress
I’m tired of similes/ for how the world/ is so whole.
They eat ribs together slathered with a dark red sauce./ The world turns, wild-eyed, on its axis.
Yesterday I screamed at my own/ inconsequence.
after you run away from the farm,/
the farmer can never catch you.
I don’t love blood. But I don’t want to think about/ what I don’t love. Living doesn’t reside in wells.
Now ghosts are throwing things, the precious flesh is in a meeting.
How can I trust God/ in the language/ in which/ He first forsook me.
Let her run her hand along the side of your face./ Let her look you in the eyes.
/ Born of a prayer / the one prayer you know / olive-wood beads / tight to your chest / rubbed smooth rubbed raw /
She buries the apple under the embers./ To allow the aroma to sugar her nostrils—
Or the polished teapot. The soft, green cake falls into a boundless pool.