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.