The voice you hear does not belong to God,
the old house gray oak, moist and stingy.
Petty thieves burrow in through holes in the wood,
slipshod knots in the grain and the domoviye
smuggled in from the old country hibernates
deep within cracks in the foundation.
Once you saw the image of the Virgin Mary
near the ceiling, wet-stained and red.
This week you bathe in fresh moonlight,
study the flaws in the great cottonwood
thick with carrion left by wandering crows.
You lost one tooth after every live birth
and named your last born Superstar.
The last time you woke him, he said, “Mama,
I’m tired. Let me settle back into sleep.”
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