We didn’t pray. We should have.
we forsook our standard wish

And blew the eyelash for
rain, traded
stars for storms. But

We had no authority even to
want a thing.
It came to naught.

Only under cover
of night,
clutching ourselves could we

remember sinking teeth,
the body’s
slick glide through space

or fingers red and wet from
berries that grew on the neighbors’

side of the fence. Those were baby
days and I,
for one, am long since

severed. Now I pour apple
into empty wine bottles

to attract the flies and devise traps
for scavenging
rats. We have to make

do. The cures for croup are
cold and wet
and we have neither.

Maybe if we dance.
Maybe when
we wake up in the morning.

Trina Burke