Religion Song

Backward, our peculiar language.
Mama says, your life are your hands.

Count them.           Spoken and leans
back into herself           a lone blade

amongst a field.           Each grass a palm



A straw hat on the old woman
who stands           back to lone house

not smiling.           A rake in her hands
Two coconut palm trees—

She would draw concentric circles in sand . . .

What yields in darkness?

A point of surrender.
The still music of captivity.

All the civility of work.




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