the blueshift journal

It rains in the fields and does not stop

but I still know dryness, can unfold it

inside my chest and hold it close.

Dryness comes in different forms, I think

(a whisper) or (the psalms). Here, our

women swear off hoses instead of books

and press their knees into the dirt for

crop, not miracle. They’re immortal or

almost, and I’m still learning to be but

I do know how to drip my wrongs into

the red watering can.

Swollen with offering, it is holey, holy,

and the proof that things come back:

lettuce, wheat, me

to these fields every day. I swear that I

will not leave, but if I do I’ll whisper

holy, holy, as I go, close my eyes and

listen for the angels

rupturing through the sky, through

the holes in the watering can.