Raised That Way

Go south at the snake church.
Wait, now, some days to work.
Hide all the words you stole.

The air hums, but it’s not
Tense. Just the beasts who speak.
The thrummed air has no words.

Check the news. Check the skies.
Check the list of old chores.
Rains end. A truck drives by.

What do you want from us?
We wait in lines for you.
We do want to please you.

We don’t know who you are.
Would you like some sliced life,
A bit of blood and bone,

A shrink-wrapped hunk of gore?
You want a piece of this,
Or some thoughts on the past?

We want to sulk and sigh.
There’s a thrummed beat out there
Where men pound at the ground

To raise new suites of homes.
We’ve been in that snake church.
We spoke in tongues, not poems.