Not Even God’s Mercy
When you wake to summer thunder
then rain fisting the roof.
When your father refuses to sleep
in the bed he shared with your mother
& sleeps in another woman’s bed.
When your mother’s illness is a liability
& she becomes a possession
of the state. Because the voices
she listens to no longer sing soft
& she tries to strangle the devil
out of your mouth. When
your grandmother gives you a crucifix
for protection & you still want to believe.
When you watch dirt clouds trail
behind the tractor, as it tears apart
cornfields & you try to forget
how long its been since you’ve felt whole.
When you stare at the shattered window
of the barn. The Cadillac rotting on the lawn.
Sunken tires of the eighteen-wheeler
your father uses as a storage unit.
When your brother cries from another room
& you let him tremble & wail: small comfort
in the sound of this audible need. When you learn
not even God’s mercy is enough. When
every day is the same terror:
your mother is never coming back
the way you want, the way you remember—
First Born
—And this time you live. Little wings unfurling,
your bones burrow beneath my breasts. Monastic
stars cluster above us, but I can’t remember the meaning
of their names. What the night sky says
about living. Here, my heart thrums full
and impossible. My body: a well, a war,
a wager called mother—. O child, o body
of my body, what’s this unknown we’ve entered?