This breakup has me believing in god

God, the canoe-shaped leaves sound like heaven

this morning on the cottonwoods outside my window.

Two days of orange smoke. This breakup

has me saying, why would god put so much love on my head

and cut half the cottonwoods down?

I wish I knew god so I wasn’t alone.

The rubbery smell of the fire and its cracking sounds.

The black bark in the grass could be the ends of cigars.

My heart coils into the softest brush snake.

My pussy aches how it ached in our apartment. God

I was grateful, watching him shake water from his gray hair.

In the yard there is a pile where the dead trees simmer

into coals and one rat scurries out.

My loneliness is its own boat full of the same multiplied rat.

My body belongs to god, or the man who owns the restaurant—

poured me an extra shot when I said I felt sad.

How was I taken home by that stranger when I could barely stand?

I was certain we would plant trees. I would wake and smell the golden sides

of his face every morning. I know only god could make

this rat scream. Before we broke up, he said he didn’t know himself

so he stole what made me. Orbs of ash fall slow,

pulling the stink from the sky. I am waiting to trust

this moment of feeling. It’s easier to ask god why.