In the almond fields
rabbits make a matinee
of their coupling. Love,
my brother says, is in the hare.
We pick apples & pears until
the day is capped with the slow
hum of dusk.

At church Maria only sang along
with hymns that sent ascension
or grace. Once, in fifth grade,
she mucked up the sign her mother
hung in the kitchen. Too Much of a God
Thing Loses Its Novelty.