By Larissa Szporluk
I don’t pray.
I just walk out there
where it’s thin
with my bow and aim.
But I should have yelled.
I should have changed the world.
A person can die of balance,
just gleam like squid
and disappear.
The fence around our house
is soft with rain.
It can’t stop my arrows.
It can’t stop
what wants to happen,
the meteors I hear, power lines
blowing from the mountain,
or the girl somewhere
who reads you,
whose skin has memorized your life.
Nothing stops her fingers;
they swim with you at night.
Leave if you’re leaving.
Leave plain mud.
I don’t know what else
is on your beard.
It would be mercy, God.
I grow weird in the field.