Winter was everything
I could not see. Pinecones
hung perfectly
in unison. They could
not move, could not
speak. I envied
the compass, the lexicon
of the satiable. I saw
mornings as worthy
of trust. I met
a god who unclamped
coin-sized organs
as I slept. I dropped
nickels into the Sunday
offering. I knew Him
as the simple jingle
of coins, the sweet
ruffle of bills. The only
god inside my body
was a small dart I shot
into my reflection. I was
a simple ripple. Every
afternoon, I sifted
nickel from the soil. No
jingle. No jingle. I didn’t
tell anyone
I liked to sing. Everyday
was morning, and I moved
and unmoved in belief,
shuffled like leaves. I didn’t
know I could be more
than a season. Spring signaled
the time to hunt. Sermons began
and eventually ended. Slowly
first and only at night, I began
to kiss the men who waited
patiently in the posters
on my bedroom wall. One day
I shot the blind turkey
in the backyard. My father
smiled wider than I thought
he ever could. I drank
a full canister of river-water
on a dare. This is how
I knew Jesus was still
there: the bird
was dead, my fingernails
stained absolution-red.