I

This morning my eyes are deeplocked

on a whiteout sky. Prayer leaks like water

from my cupped hands—I hope

not to be afraid.

This morning God is obvious

the snow is falling soft

over a long row of poplars

in parallel punctuation,

To whom shall you go?

By noon I give up hope.

We are all dying to do the right thing.

II

We met at a long table and they

asked what I brought to the table.

I’ve seen a lot of death, I said.

And that’s something, I suppose.

I remember there was a low swung moon

in August, swear to God bigger

than my face and red as blood.

It was slowly losing ground to

the deep stubble of a cornfield.

I stopped the car, a blue heron was

bent, listening.

III

One morning God spoke to me

and said

and said

And that’s something, I suppose.

When I blow out the wick of a candle

smoke curls into a language.

Now the snow rises above the window seam

the poplars are bowed, a whisper

Whose mouth do you feed?

Who do you love?

And the world is quiet for a long time.

-Liana Esau