This is not my testament

cough, moo, the ticking clock – wrenched
inventions of the real – a rolling pin’s rub,
drifts of pipe smoke, doors open then close.

Neutrality is blind. Either I am Jesus,
or I am not. And the dead woman will,
in fact, have a successful birthing –

the child will nurse her breast, will have
fat hands and shoulders, his feet will be soft,
always, even though the land is hard

and the field’s in need of a certain bruising.
Wind over this field has a simple theology:
grasses move this way or they do not move.

I watch from my window, but I prefer standing
in the middle of the field so the world becomes
a great bird, flying into its perfect bird-life.

Sam Rasnake's poetry, widely published, has appeared in journals such as MiPOesias, Pebble Lake Review, Literal Latté, Snow Monkey, Siren, The Dead Mule, nycBigCityLit, and Three Candles. The author of Religions of the Blood (Pudding House) and Necessary Motions (Sow’s Ear Press), he also edits Blue Fifth Review, an online poetry journal (website)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761