We would stand against the oak tree’s lizard skin,
away from the porch,
weather bronze flakes on our palms.
The grey flecks of ashen coke sky,
matching paper print on kitchen tops,
ironed shirts of collar with dried bubble soap suds pops.
Out of our pregnant thoughts
our lives became.
Jesus trapped in stories of good.
How every now and then, he’d like to let the bad guy in.
The words were not honey.
They came in the ear like bees
and my mind filled up the holes with wax.
See I noticed the shadows under cossacks,
were not darker than the black of his cloth.