Milkshake. Minor god. Because I own shares of camellias,
I bring all grandmothers to my yard. There must be a tree
with the hair of grandmothers—maybe the willow?
Maybe bees weep in the hearts of peonies,
their legs nectar-heavy. There is no room
left on this planet for another sad human, but still,
we make room for them. There is no room for another
poem about loss, yet we carve our one wild and precious life
into a gravestone. When I fell asleep, I woke dressed
in butterfly wings, my tropical dress was their destination.
I moved so slowly nothing was harmed.
Like how nothing hurts except the void, the voice
that believes a metaphor will land on my home,
or a meteor fall into my poems. Who will I meet
on my iPhone today? Who will I block or mute—
the power of a small, insignificant god. Let me be
the philosopher drinking Malbec at the edge
of a decade, not talking about plagues or angels—of course,
I will. I’m barbwired that way, I’m releasing
waxwings from my neighbor’s blueberry netting.
What were you trying to save? I asked. She values fresh
fruit while I’m dreamt for feathered souls.
The best gods make space for sobbing. The best gods
walk the grandmothers up to their doors.
