2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4

(Because) The Jesus Tree (Is Not a Tree, But a Switch to Hold Up the Moon)

by STACY KIDD

The man stands on a birdbath to learn

the language of feathers, and like the wind,

when the man speaks, he reaches

deep into his pockets to charm the sky.

Water when it comes, comes slowly,

as it always does, at night, when the cardinal

eats the last of the elderberries

to turn its blood heavenward and sigh,

darling, why do you resist dreaming

the stars' neglected deaths? Each time the man

finds excess in the flights of birds—talisman,

devil-devil—a spell colder than the crow's caw

pitches to ground. And like the water,

when it does fall, it finds some sudden

vernacular to call its Salem,

ward off witches, hitch wind song:

The winter the town grew slack-bellied and blank,

a yellow bird softer than the children

flew from field. When the moon cut herself

into kindling, she sang Old Woman, Old Woman,

give me your wood, Judas is hung from the branches.