I speak god language
because people die
and god is the tongue of death.
Death stopped time, left me behind
my father with the small pot of raspberry jam
he ate with a spoon.
My story-line is a birth, a tooth-
ache, a marriage, a broken wrist, a custody war,
a death by fire.
It’s no different than yours --
a flash-memory in the shower,
a bruise without details.
Life offers tautologies — there is no god
but god. Have I ever considered conversion
or even slight faith?
There was no metanoia the day
I fell from grace and lost my name on the road.
Lost is an actual place, you know.
For she had no body odor and lay motionless
beside the dead doe, and so
you took her home and fed her goat’s milk.
This you did: collared and tethered her, a pet
wandering a yard strewn with cars on blocks
among old oil tanks.
Your darling: adopted, broken, stroked, chosen.
And who am I, trussed and bound to a fault line,
who shadowed not her own mother, nor knows
how she was meant to be.