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.