A woman wrinkles over her chair,
soaked in religion,
piling God’s children on gravel.
They eat with her disciples
where bread is dry, yet
milk is sweet.
I stand by with clover.
I paint the children green and set them up
as chess pieces.
Confused feet step over boundaries,
but it is her game.
Her weight stomps chicken bones.
Her voice pours like gravy
over our heads, till I put them to sleep,
and the lullaby’s rock me
as I bleach time from my head.
The woman is asleep
in God’s arms, I rest at his feet,
and the children,
in their sleep, sing.
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