One Ritual I’ve been Asked to Do

by Holly Prado

this bird: its thread of green spins
healthily right through the tree’s
large taking-in of sun. we’ve been
so wet, so full of movies, and
now a day in which my husband’s
singing about wings before we even have
our breakfast. Sunday, bowl of worship,
curtains spun by tiny bugs 0r birds:
a hummingbird, a sparrow and a raven—
our neighborhood, the guards who hold
the roofs and trees all night. I hope
to re-write walking all the time,
the earth-stemmed family that can map
and cook, imagine transubstantiation:
the shoulder blade, the angel. this bird
appearing just the way gods should: in
flash and speed, another species,
and dependent on what isn’t true:
our joy. we have no instinct for that
pleasure but can make it up. we can.
we’re capable of pushing hard against the dead.

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