Mother-song

The gods said carry water,
and so I did my best. 
                      I fashioned
the fist-sized muscle in my chest
into a sling. 
              I packed it with 
prayer and provision, stretched it
night after night 
                  to carry lengths  
of rain and baskets of fog. But oh,
how can I 
          patch its loosened
shingles, its rent partitions
that can't keep ruin 
                     at bay? 
I wanted to make honey from heat,
fragrance the stones
                         with fallen
lavender, feed my wayward love to all
my prodigals. 
              Is it they that haven't returned;
or did I stumble blind inside the orchard?
One night, perhaps  
                   it burned and I couldn't  
tell the smell of failure from the rich 
discarded pelts under each tree.

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