Two Poems

Thy Kingdom Come/ Thy Will be Done

Hallowed be the name 
of thy children      bagged

& buried beneath snow       the woman strangled
in her bed            the child raped in a middle school

bathroom         how can you bear what you’ve seen
    here       o ugly snow of my childhood

tell me where my faith is buried when you go
    love       governed by seasons

I am a season       betrayed    
        by sun-slits in the pavement   

the sidewalks        broken      by the live oaks’ lost roots
growing toward the sky             perhaps           like people

trees want more of the world
            than what they are born to

if there is a heaven     show me
        how we’ll be restored       promises

like peonies          growing over gravestones      in a cemetery
    I wander   wanting   

a name for my baby     that has already been claimed
surely      curses are more than myth           o lord

bless the child I carry     bless the widowed 
    wind         bless the cherry blossoms        so briefly

in-bloom         bless what you’ve given us
bless what you take & take &

Uninhabitable Sphere

In the hours a child bends 
into a labyrinth, who sees the hours 
building in me this absence? 
I asked for a city
to rebuke the river
I am. I asked for more sea
-sons. The country of my mother
that I gave up years ago. A woman
I wove from sand 
& syllables. The phrases
thrown away when her body
failed us. I follow 
the hollows in the orphaned
earth, but I refuse
the fence, the dam,
the log-laced river bottom. 
The departed, like velvet
-cloaked bells. Each ovary,
a diamondfull satchel. 
Where are the minutes I will disappear in?
I thought a child would make me
immortal. But only the hours bear
a child. Slick. Indistinct.
Reeking of fertilizer & coffee grounds. 
Sometimes, I want to go. The child will not grow
closer. I will not be distracted. 
What fanfare is there in being
brave? I reach into the ground & feel 
hundreds of years. Waiting mouths. 
The hours that I won’t be known. 
A heaven that exists to empty 
a mother of ghosts.
Of all of this possiblity.