I wake, full of crust

as a piece of bread. I kill the living,

resurrect the dead.

My three great-aunts

dinosaur-old, sip tea in the parlor

with fingers of gold.

My one great-uncle

holds a trout on a line, heavy

as truth when it’s hooked in time.

God is too wide,

this poem is too narrow, and faith

moves the world in a little wheelbarrow.

Rain falls on the window

like stars from heaven. Sun falls on your

face, a benediction. Water taps

at my door, starving

for a drink, I tell it to stop for a moment

and think.

The branches of a tree

on a day in winter crack in the wind’s

pent-up anger.

This broken doll I made whole

for you is all I need to feed

my muse.