Because there’s a god for the water on your skin
when you’ve come from the lake. One for the absence
of flowers in a vase, for every pump and filter organ inside my dog
One god isn’t enough to warm a cup of tea. Legions
are to blame for how the list of things my son doesn’t understand
is getting longer these middle years:
how to speak to girls, how to fold a shirt and why
he wants to cry some days when he walks in the front door
There’s a god in every empty room upstairs above the party
each calling a couple away with its own soft light
its own sort of quiet
And go back to the tea. The kettle, the water, the spoon
Feel the ghost of steam on your lips. See how the water
has changed, how it’s turned dark and there is no undoing it?
