SARAH VAP

Spring in Phoenix: An answer to the vanishing God

This morning, husband,

you lay beneath the window and dreamed of many people
watching you sleep through that window, while

this overdue boy is still

and quiet inside me. I tell you, like a dog who’s snuck muddy onto the bed,
hopes he won’t be noticed so he can stay

a little while longer.
Now the halo is written within me, I wake with those words. Then, indeed,

someone’s bucking hay within me—my moon, full of mangers—
fontanel and temple.

His delicate footing is the trace of two white kites.  

   Contributor’s notes   
   A cradle of warmed oats for the chickens on the Epiphany
   A snuggery, evolved
   Children
   Clear and dark gills of mushrooms
   Reconcile
   Self-portrait as a butter-churner