dereliction

and in the fields where the forget-me-nots
climb sideways, pious and succinct
with bees hanging like earbobs from their blue heads,
the minister composes a sermon and the cicadas
and scrub-legged locusts murmur blasphemies –
apostasy among the tallgrass.

the sun slides along the sky like a gastropod – on it's stomach –
and the houseboat snails ferry across the porchsteps
as mother kneads bread in the kitchen, which expands like the holy spirit.
she tells me that the yeast is alive – a thousand tiny grains
dehydrated creatures, which cluster like the white
membranous conclaves of ant eggs I find under the stepping stones.

the self-important clouds decay at a half-life
the brush of the wind gentle and loveless
and the men standing in the doors of the church as father
talks parables and scripture – he has not had a baptism in seven months.
it has been a dry season.

we hide under the eaves, in the shade after church,
like numbers huddled under a division sign
and father locks himself in his study to read the bible and to pray
as he always has these past seven months, praying for a baptism.
the trees stand waterless and black in the sun,
their leaves curling like lips in disgust
pageantry of the field, choir of the tallgrass

the dry mountain oversee us
like barons

and father's prayers evaporate from his lips.