I washed your father’s pants in the kitchen sink.
That should have been enough to tell you.
I am still convinced there is no difference
between kneeling and falling if you don’t get up.
The head goes down in defeat, but lower in prayer,
and your sister tells me each visit that she has learned
of a new use for her hands.
I’ve seen this from you both: cartwheels through the field
at dawn, toes popping above the corn stalks like fleas
over the heads of lepers. Your scarecrow reminds me
of Jesus, his guilt confused for fear.
The sun doesn’t know; the fog lifts
everything in praise.