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
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
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.
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.