Drought

Something warm against the skin. Lice
boil in baby's hair. The mother's drunk
as the Catholic priest three blocks west
who lost his church last Sunday. Fire.
Now he's afraid of candles. The crazy healer
who passes through each spring
says we won't even see God's ass
for all our simple prayers.
The truth is simple too: we plan our crops
against the weather we expect, worship wind
and miserable span of sky. Three days into June
and half our cattle dead. Dogs howling
at the sun. The midwife claims our children
are to blame. Their mangy flesh offends.
We've gathered wood and burned a flock of sheep
to no effect. I've branded crosses on the barn
and still my daughter's saucer-eyed and slack.
Lord. If He'd send rain to heal the ground I swear
I'd open up my throat to let the singing out.