They pinch flowers, hunt

sticks with knobby femur

ends, chicken bones  

for spoons, a soup of dead

leaves and dirt, discover

a slick muscle carrying

a bone swirl, a helmet, snail

she tries the wet sound

in her mouth, watches it glide

up the post on a current

of light. She smells the tang

of loam, big world made of

old things, feels its whorl,

its aegis, its reliquary  

of secrets, and before her

questions can thicken  

into thought it drops  

to the pavement, brother

tests the force of his baby

foot, feels the crunch 

of an egg, an abacus bead,

surrender of sponge, leans

over to learn what wet shape 

his power can take. And after

she has stiffened her arms,

wailing, after she has deflated

she turns her bright face up

talks about Jesus,  

how he came back— 

then curls her hands  

into a prayer and watches,

waiting for that slug  

to move. And before  

I can find the words for what

an eon is, how to let her

down easy, how to believe

in something you only keep

in a closet to lug down  

and dust off after funerals,

she has climbed out of that

abyss, her knees rusty

with clay, and run off, 

one muscle of present tense,

her hair carrying the light.