It starts that young:
In bed, a child prays with her mother
and a chorus line of animals
backed against the headboard.
The liturgy’s familiar as the organ
with its bottom row of pipes
sticking straight out like shot guns
between the choir.
She keeps her eye on them.
And tonight, where we are,
who’s to say where the Lord is, exactly?
Worse things can be dreamed
than a shepherd in a CLK 500 coupe,
a backseat full of lambs,
and a jug of juice looking like wine
(she’s on to this already)
hot on the trail of that one
who wanders off again, and again.