Ars Poetica
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. 
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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. 

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Winter 2019