April 10.

 Sonny Boy Jesus

Look at my crosshatched hands daring
the water to rise up criss crossed rough
I carry the weight of every orchid roustabout
this morning the scuba diver skimmed
the surface her brisk frog legs kicking out
no whale no bloody angel or weeping Mary
potato salad and canned biscuits salted
meat and little lambs I keep my hands
folded the skin worn thin all those factory
chemicals and digging potatoes out of soil
without gloves tell me oracle am I near
my seventh decade I have no social
group no scholarship no quilting bee
barely suited for these trees the best
I can do is call up snow an Easter
diorama on Palm Sunday while girls
dream of devotion in milk fed voices
the godhead deeper than we ever imagined