I.
Under the crescent moon
white bird soars, descends,
lost to my sight in the
brush.
Canyon sage for a cloak, I
shiver,
waiting for rodent scream.
II. She was found yesterday; she left a note:
The world is flat again,
visible, acute.
I listen to the news. I cry
when they cry.
No one cries when I cry.
I want to go back to God.
III.
They mistook him for a fag,
. beat him to death.
It was an honest mistake.
IV.
The moon is: two-faced
for
some, she illumines hell.
The wind is: golden flight
on breathing fields
for
some, clotted dust.
Love is: a curl around faith
for
some, a bone in the throat.
V. Is this all I meant to you, god? We all pray
in our own way.
Does a beast not know you
have betrayed her,
as you have me? Anguish of
her calf, agony of a child’s lament,
burns to flesh, blood on
soil,
a cut to the heart hurts.
In my time before I go, I
need to know.
Is this all I meant to you?
I reached for Her but could
not touch.
She wondered how I knew her
name
as we had not been introduced
and She was not
well-known
or ever
recognized.
I told Her of the gilding
they paint around Her thighs
and the gentle nod Her
likeness gives
to lambs and doves and
children.
In anger She rebuked me,
for my familiar ways.
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