The Depository Of Religion by Michael Brownstein

THE DEPOSITORY OF RELIGION

 

We woke early afternoon to a Witch's Day,

the blue lit sky framed in a curvature of cloud.

On the counter, cool drinking water from the creek of red horse-mint

and the scent of greens mixed with onions and discolored peppers.

Don't tell me you do not know this feeling of things gone well,

self-satisfied, colored purple-red.

Near the deadfall, we built what was ours to build,

opened it to a sea of stars in the evening before an erosion of light,

settled in beneath thick quilted blankets and soft sheets,

listened to the way charms and blessings spread into eveningsong,

the way bearwalkers move in the dark four days after the burial.

We have two more days to lie here waiting. Make yourself at home:

you can not say this was not the way of our life,

the creek and the cemetery our autobiographies,

the faint shadow of rainbow, the glitter of warmth in a touch,

the leather pouch with its victim set safe behind vinyl.