October, and every morning the dog rushes out
to bark at scarecrows neighbor children
have staked in the yard.  

A sight hunter, she knows a human shape
when she sees it, a raised arm,
an angry gesture.  

I, too, have been tricked by things less honest–
the stick that turns into a snake, the gourd
that grows 

into the shape of a saint, the relic you keep
in a little satin heart.  Who is to say
they are not genuine? 

If I lift a spider to the windowsill, carry
a toad across the road, is it any more
or less than prayer,

any less reverent than the blackbirds
that gather each evening to mutter
their own dark rosary?

I want a blessing for unholy things—
for the catbird that empties
the sparrow’s nest,

for the mice, moles and grubs that eat
at the roots of the apple tree,
for everything

that bites and stings and spoils, a blessing
in which the faithless can, nevertheless,
put their faith.

 

 

First published by The New England Review, appears in What I Know About Innocence