Because, lo! An unwhispered wish is a feral cat just downwind of the chickens.
I didn’t get why the cats had claimed this lot
until I heard the chickens across the fence.
What more could one pray grace yield
than a rocky field to digest the evidence,
stretched out? I guess it suggests
a part of each heart like this:
where feral wishes haunt the weeds,
lounging like genies on broken glass.
The way light sags against the grass
morning and evening this time of year,
or maybe just around here, it seems laden
with these. Yet what could one add to it
but a dry jacket zipped tight? And tomorrow,
the way eggs crack and sizzle in a skillet—
what could one ask of any patron spirit
but just to throw some bacon on that shit,
make you feel rich like grease smoke?
Add a fat kiss from Honey and a slapped ass,
and that’s domestic bliss. Civilizing gifts.
Leftovers for the chickens and cats out back.
So what on blue earth to beseech next
of that surging/shy kindness that fattens the flesh
of exacting fate, but to drop some kids into the mix,
make you feel thick like Ali Baba through the
little or almost too-long blacknesses of night?
Wife like river mouth: converging waves.
Company to drape an arm around,
throw a leg over beneath the same blanket—
to share the myth that there’s a promised place
and we’re gonna make it. One or a dozen pilgrims,
scavenged from their failings, to roll with.
A community of faith, however make-shift.