SARAH VAP

Children

When, beyond the patience of night’s long black grass,

they’re locked into that shape
of a small white chastity—it’s hardly this simple—

of their basic cells. It’s hardly

winterpond’s peaceful dose of sleep,
or Faulkner’s rosary. It’s what their hearts hold

that becomes truth,
as far as we know truth. It’s the gular pouch of their hearts;

it’s the trace of clacking
in their sky becomes the truth.  

   Contributor’s notes   
   A cradle of warmed oats for the chickens on the Epiphany
   A snuggery, evolved
   Clear and dark gills of mushrooms
   Reconcile
   Self-portrait as a butter-churner
   Spring in Phoenix: An answer to the vanishing god