DEVOTIONS
by McGowin Grinstead
off the phone now I am
hearing you in the trees. Orchards.
Or in shards of glass, plaster, shallow kitchen
walls where all goes black. You cut
an apple. Sticky green blood accidentally
floods the plate, parted only by God-
like hands. We hear shattering
stars in shards of apple + knife, rattling
shallow kitchens with lovemaking. Hounds.
I’m dreaming now and angels are pounding boulders on my skull, pulling hooks of
cartoons through lip-like canals, climbing
ladders of yew. I awake to sweet burning
of trees, crackling, and shells snapping
into your motherly palm. Pancakes. English
hunting, punting up rivers, blood-yelping
hounds, hollowed kitchen walls, hallow round
saints all round the table of God, slurping loudly. Headaches. You cut and raise
your voice. I can’t hear you
darling; the trees are burning.