Sarah Sousa

The God of the Fox and the Goose

I prayed to the echo
god, the god that throws rocks
from the mountains.
I prayed to the god that doesn’t listen.
I prayed to the god that doesn’t answer.
I prayed to the god of the road
that interrupts waiting, the god of immense
tracts unnamed. I prayed to the god
I created, the god that sketches devils
in matchbooks. I prayed
to the god of perpetual journey.
I prayed to the god of the fox
and the god of the goose, with chest cavity
hollowed. I prayed to the god
of repetition, I prayed
to the god of staggering need:
quit jammin me,
the god of stop-time.
In medias res, I prayed
to the god of women with one husband,
but what if I’d prayed to the god
of women with many lovers?
I prayed to the god of dignity
and self loathing,
I prayed to the scavenger
god, the god that dropped me
on the rocks, the god
that broke me and ate my heart
clean from its shell. I prayed
to the god of the road stained
with feathered kill. I prayed to the god
of emotional excess, the god of longing:
alleviate my relentless longing. I prayed
to the god of lose and retrieve
I prayed to the god at altar and in bed.
I prayed to the god of heat
and the lifted skirt hem.