Amy Leigh Wicks


The Spirit picked him up and dropped him off at the foot
Of a dark mountain. It doesn’t say if he wore shoes but

He was standing on an acre of seashell smooth white skulls.
Soldiers so dead even the rot was picked clean from their bones.

As you can imagine, the whole place was quiet. Open your mouth
Ezekiel. A man alone in the valley talking to the dead dead dead.

The bones rattled like waves dragging rocks at Hongoeka Bay until
Tendons bloomed flowers on bone, and mossy flesh muted the sounds.

Talk to the four winds Ezekiel. And he did, until the bones reknit and
One heart gulped and then another, the valley a chorus of drums

After dinner, before climbing into bed, I set the book down. I talk to ants
Lately, I say get off my kitchen bench. And I spray them with Ajax

When I pray. Will faith rattle their little bodies to death, will wind rush in
Through a crack in the window and touch me until I am gasping — alive

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