I never asked God
for anything. 
Learned to want
what could be 
worked towards. 
Prayers for shiny hair
or feeble excuses
confused me.

The poppy
is my likeness.
Spring a question 
in her opened face.
She doesn’t ask 
for radiance,
just shines thick
enough for 
bees to throb at.

Prayer stopped
on my ancestor’s
lips a few links
back and there is
no one left to ask why.

I’m told they 
didn’t speak of 
God, just of 
morals and soil. 

Now I’m left
Godless but
with plenty 
to believe in.
Poppies leap
out of my throat.
I believe at 
their feet, trust
their roots, 
long and carrot-light.

I believe in 
how seeds want
only what can be 
worked toward:
to go split-husk,
make more 
of themselves,
feel rain,
grow taller. 

I look out at 
the thick
poppy field.
Whisper to the
orange faces:

Are you there, God?

Don’t tell anyone,
I’m looking
for you.