ALHS
Gib Mir Gewand
Once I saw an oak tree thresh itself of birdsong.
God, your mystics are condemned to sing alone
your praises.
In garment of your colours, a mendicant
cries for respite. Shoulders on the ground. Mouth
on the ground. Language, have mercy on us.
His eyes disturb the sand.
God, I do not name him as the shallow grave hastens
to find the throat.
Oak branches, blanched and contorted
about the sky.
God, I did not flinch.
Language, have mercy
on us. Metaphor, have mercy on us. Mercy,
have mercy on us.
There was no oak tree.
There was
never an oak on my way home. I saw a man with fists
oaken and obedient to something in restless sleep.
God, in our intimate wars are mines of eyes.
I unfurled
my own fist and counted, thumb to each oaken finger,
how long remained for a child my age.
God, I have held your gaze
longer than I did one parched for grace. God, I have
outstared you.
God, the arbutus stands with peeling bark.
God, am I robed?
ALHS is a poet and critic. She lives and writes on the unceded land of the Lək̓ʷəŋən peoples.