Spring Theology

Back to Issue 12

A glass marble rolling down the painted porch floor:
+++++an act of forgiveness. 

Rhythm lurching over every wooden seam:
+++++a remembrance, an inertia. 

God, you are my slanted velocity.
You are the black dirt of my childhood:
+++++a graveyard of marbles. 

On cool nights, 
when you and I exhale, God, 
out comes a joined body of shadow. 
Together, we are so desired by the air
it ravishes the very prayers
we have for one another. 

My prayer: moonflower and spade. 
My spade: the sound of worship,
+++++shushing against soil and glass
+++++scraping grace for even myself.

You are the particles in the darkness of my body
+++++in the darkness.
Your prayer: the wood, green leaf and bloom. 

By Bethany Breitland 

Bethany Breitland interrogates the buried structures of America. Her people are cult members, doctors, farmers, too-young mothers, bigots, and business tycoons. Her poems strike a match to her past in order to view class, religion, divorce, and the female identity from embered light. She lives at the end of a dirt road in Vermont.