TO THE KNEES
BY ANNA ROSE WELCH
I lived from one small domestic transformation
to another. At night, the pond broke to take in the rain.
In the morning, I heard you gathering your shotgun
from the dark corner of the stairs, its long length
a well-kept treasure. It might be beautiful in your hands,
the way light bursts from it like a brief tulip. To think
this is the last thing something wild sees, or doesn’t see,
before it ends. You: into the woods, and I: my morning prayers,
ending every sentence with Amen, which will always mean
May it be so, no matter how much I hate to plead.