A woman wearing a bandanna
is praying from the front pew of a church.
She is thinking of the same things again,
a deserted home with a fallen chimney,
the chest high remains filled with cement,
her father pulling railway ties from the mouth of the soil
with no need for language or help
even as the sky strained the moon and stars from night.
She was shuffling stones in her hand
beneath creek water,
with the pocket on her dress still unworn.
There was someone saying,
'sometimes the stones need to find you'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem