by Megan Denton Ray
Two crumbs of it fall from my center and plead
for offspring, or inventory. It’s Sunday,
and I am close to the wind and wordy, flipping
my pancakes for God. Don’t mistake me
for the static inside a fence. I’ve been known
to reach over and feed my heart a berry.
I’ve been known to spin in my watermelon dress,
seeds flying as I jump the rails, ready
to root and face the sun. I first heard
God’s laughter on this very lawn, noticed
how my teeth roll off the cusp
of his every breath. I cheer for him now.
He missed two belt loops this morning.
I want to tell him, but I am busy seeing.
Songsmith, booking agent: I have a contract with God.
I am desperate to cultivate his waste places
and run a factory. The holy spirit is in my
mouth. Like some yeast rising, I am defined
by my tension, or patience. I show up
with my begging bowl and bread falls in.
Megan Denton Ray received her MFA from Purdue University. Her work has appeared recently or soon in The Sun, Passages North, Salt Hill Journal, Cimarron Review, The Adroit Journal, and elsewhere. She currently lives and teaches in Tennessee.