I mistook my father for a sewer rat once, his tail
dragging behind, plump and serpentine.

I followed the S’s onto our yellowed half-acre,
stopped at the sound of hens; the flocks in the

tallest branches, alive with a foliage of wings.

This is where she and I pushed our pants to our ankles
and peed, heard God’s voice roar—What the hell?

Or maybe that was my father—we didn’t turn around to see,
scrabbling through the thistle, as we were, on our knees.