Elijah
(For LJ Cohen)

I spread my arms
over him, like Moses
addressing Israel from the mount,
pray above a toppled idol—
he blanches to ivory

at my feet. His mother; the worn
widow, sits humped as a rubbed-round stone.
Her cries fill the house,
blend with the sorrow of the winds
that batter her walls.

Serpent tongue wicks spit
smoke that coils
searing blindness around the room,
each flame-flicker thickens it. I blink back
tears that feign

my mourning. I blink back time
to Gilead— the sun stares
like God’s scrutinizing eye. Planes of wheat bow
beneath its glare, and mother’s prayers
as I grasp the raven’s body

in my palms. We stand
surrounded by grove capped hilltops
that churn, brew like storm clouds,
and then her Oh! when wings flap. Open
like his eyes dither, widen—

they rise up.