Bitterroot. Minor apocalypse. Because I am the keeper of the rainwater,

I scatter it over the wild garlic like a sermon. There must be a river

for everything to return to.
Who will speak today? Who will answer?

Every woman has a day when she stops feeding the birds

and starts breaking mirrors.
My mother said her prayers like petals falling off roses

but God was tired of getting flowers. She left the basement

tiled with canning jars,
peach halves suspended like lungs, dust a soft skin

on every lid. I keep the voicemail saved. Play it

when the house is too quiet.
Do the dark shapes in the forest know you’re afraid of them?

The best gods let you believe the rain can be convinced

to fall upward.
The kitchen clock is wrong again, or maybe right

for a different life. Grief grows fingers, learns to braid

the hair of daughters.