One Sunday night long after church, he struck
flint to match head. Its flare lit
his thick pupils, his licked mouth. His breath
tugged the curling glow of tobacco
down into his lungs, a choir exhaling,
the lord make his face to shine upon you.
That night I was shoulder-deep in rain and branches,
his other mare flattening her ears under me.
He had a grace in his hands, and his father claimed
he could make a reined mare believe she ran
free with him. His flowing
breath made visible, smoke streaming
from his rounded mouth. As I watched
he smiled slowly, and be gracious, the lord
be gracious unto you. Even then I heard it,
in shallow breaths of wind, and on this Sunday
night long after I left, the gin sweeps into me and out
through the skin, and again into my
mouth. I am mud-faced, wading out to find shell-
fish among the rocks. I pry down through crust
to taut flesh. Drink again, to him
and me, a too-gentle rain on already saturated
earth--it squeezed between our feet, his back
dented with bark--we were soft against soft. Or was it
flint on flint and nothing to light? I'll hold up
one more to the king's health
and to his, the lord make his face
to bless and keep you. All of this turns
to grit when the tide goes out. At times like this
I swear even God thirsts for me.