The broken man halved–himself,
his father’s peaches–to sweeten hurt,
carried goats by the fetlocks to feed
his nowhere-children. The night
the storm curled itself around the chest
of his house-heart, mothers took themselves
more seriously than the wheat or what,
if anything, was left to eat come morning.
It was left to him to break the trees,
to see the Great One came angry,
loving, anyway, really, just so he came,
kindled–their bodies the way of fish or fowl–
tenderly prayed for by name when killed.