A Lesser Pot to Put Our God Thoughts In

I’ll be jiggered if she didn’t figure
it out — which way the creek runs
when it’s almost high and dry.
The bones inside stones, how to shape
birds out of clay, breathe on them
to make them live. She’s like
some kind of god, or a lesser pot
to put our God thoughts in.
She has flaming eyes, even though
her fever broke two weeks ago.
We don’t know whether to kill her,
run her out of town, or keep her
as one of our own. But we’re
bound to do one of those things,
and we said we’d choose tonight.

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