OUR LADY OF THE PERISCOPES

See out—the silt is wet.

She presided at the blessing of the kites

through winds worthy of prairie and prayer.

See these things and ponder them—

especially the steppe. 

Periscopes peek over mild hills,

over votive stalks of big bluestem and switchgrass. 

Forget mountains where there are cranes,

but there are no cranes.

This used to be a landlocked sea.

She is gone down to the empty bed,

she is gone down into the valley again—

she is gone down with locusts and wild honey

into the plain.

There is a breeze here,

the smell of water.

See her hagiography written in the open,

raw god-field where her feast is held

amidst a convergence of cows,

lain down for rainy weather. 

E.C. Messer lives in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco and Pismo Beach, CA with her husband and four cats, one of whom has a bionic heart. Follow her on Instragram and Twitter @ecmesser. She would like very much to know you.