Whatever the meal, He likes it well-done.
A char around the fatty edge,
an unmistakable burn into human flesh.
He’ll take fish if he has to—although
He prefers the smoky ash
of a throatslit lamb
or a turtledove traded in for a few dollar bills
and an earthworm. My sisters
were baptized together—both entered
water with eyes wide open
on the bank of the Muskantine. With arms crossed,
they were submerged as witches
and came out coughing, with nary
a spikehole or confession between them.
They were then wrapped in towels, and shivered
while we sang a quiet hymn.

They were silent on the way home.
No one talked of the water, the way light
broke hard off the surface undulation.

No one whispered a word
about lives caught up in flame.
No one spoke of the deer,
wet and drawing gar
at the water’s soft edge.