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.




From The Morning Hour selected by C. D. Wright for the PSA National Chapbook Fellowship competition. All rights reserved.