From the Fishouse

Adore me, Lord,
beneath this raw milk sky, your vision
of silvery cream comprising daylight.

I’ve kept our appointment
in the barn, board after board of pine
hewn by us,

sit beside the pig we chose
for his mildness
who smiles, now, in his waste.

I abide by the chickadee
who stutters in, a little obsessed
with the mirrored chimes, her baffled image.

Our saddles, oiled on thick nails,
gleam from the walls like 3-D portraits.
Something must be wrong

or else you would answer—
my father in heaven who speaks to me
when no one else will speak to me.