Room Magazine - - BAKER -

I have fol­lowed a crooked line back to her par­tic­u­lar grace. The edges of me un­tidy, tongue coarse as a burlap sack. Hard. Learned prayers lus­cious like rust, a pickup back­seat fuck, a husk of a trac­tor grill thick with grasshop­pers. The more taboo things I do with my body the less mon­strous my body be­comes.

Soft as the sum­mer wheat scored through by a high­way back to where I was born.

We don’t get the saints we need: we dream them into be­ing the way the cleft of a val­ley wel­comes the river. So a girl dreams a femme who would get down on her knees for her, whose heart was the naked prairie and then the fire again, who could muster con­cern for women’s pain and other earthly things.

For me, she peels back the screen door to savour a moth, rest­ing, and hear how the wind hushes the fields.

How the air sizzles and cracks like an ac­etate song as the sky gath­ers it­self and crick­ets croon in the old mother’s tongue.

She turns words of her first lan­guage in my open mouth And falls like light­ning into the cup of this night.

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