Pulling husks off cicadas, a good child sitting
            in long grass. Palmfuls of ghost skins, holy.
No songs. Is this a sign, is this anything?
            Wading pools, a fox burrowing away from
a pack of hungry dogs. A family portrait:
            His orchard a groom. His mom a mouth.
His hands spoons, digging for plants. Your child
            a product. A cut-out of want. Or an accusation,
a distant volcano, an abyss unlocking its mouth.
You know this story. A god will attack you,
            claim a lost tooth. Indict you for his biting.
A god will catch a boy, try to own him.
            A god as watching. A waiting. A god as a pack
of hungry dogs, gold fangs. A boy as a fox,
            pink stomach pushing under posts. Nightfall
as running. Nightfall as growling, as a boy digging
            through dirt for a sprout. Volcanic soil budding,
shoots vying for position.
Wading pools, holy. A cut out of your throat.
            Your want, hands. Your want, swallowing.
You ask for rain and find a volcano. You ask
            a child and find a bowl. A pair of spoons.
You ask a child and grow a tooth. His mouth,
            an accusation. His mouth,
His own. His own.