The God moves through the grassland

The God moves through the grassland,

with steady, intestinal intent,

mountains move largely unseen.

I have three shards of glass

criss-crossed on the sucking mud,

two are blooded one is

wrapped in purple thread

bound.

The saw grass sings bowed blades,

sticking to my stained robes.

Elsewhen I’m the the king of

the peat, I’m the celebrants’ sacrifice.

But here, I lie with lip liner and kohl

eyes,

waiting for The God,

slices of the saw grass paper whipping thin red

lines across my flesh,

flinging my scent carried

in humid clouds. Grackles

gathered in the bald cypress

gossip, they’ve seen The God, they

know what I don’t.

“you’ve seen?”

“his look”

“them look”

“look know”

“man blood”

“say now?”

“see now”

“lock lock”

“close near”

“near”

The trees explode with wings,

inking a message I don’t quite catch across the purple cloud base.

The third shard reflects nothing

I bow my head before the silence.

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