When the thunder / cracked above / and God poured water / upon the earth
It’s the young French father’s longer arms / that first reach their daughter’s hair / in which her clasp is tangled.
I watch the moon lean against the branches empty / trees wrap its curves to the scent of spring its green / rhetoric
I will hear your words, O Lord, / I will sing and selah with my mouth; / I will teach, I will study, I will serve with my hands, / But in my heart, O Lord, / I will hesitate.
and still I reorder these bones you no longer need
yellow. i don’t know why i need to tell you that / but i do. it was yellow and it was the color / of understanding my mortality.
You won’t find a painting of his / with that title, only one corner / of a painting
I’d rather be a Corn Goddess on a Pueblo church’s walls, / sly insertion into a conqueror’s faith
When the body / fills with tiny hooves / pressing in the early hours / before dawn