Dear Ruth

 

 

 

 

Anyone can be a plank-mouthed bird or anyone can be the sky hallelujah

is the accepted lie of hymns. Like a girl walking has never needed to fly

 

but could if she wanted. If winged & if the wings fit—if fielded, if felt.

What is the difference between asking & asking for it are the words

 

that we should burn into a field, Oh Glory. Whether you are lost

or whether you are the blondest bird leaned against a fence

 

hemming in an orchard, Ruth, you are the holy thing I look to.

So explain to me about the habits of cicadas, why only the men

 

speak, why it takes some of them 17 years to come correct.

All the leaves are eaten bare; yet the tree is not empty, we know

 

from experience—Ecclesiastes. Help me understand, help me reverse

the pilgrims’ stories. Make them rise up out of their bone crypts

 

doubled with purpose—bloodied, believing—& send them to war

for their girl queens. War for their daughters hallelujah

 

world without end. Oh but God my God Amen.