Praying for Thieves

Charlene Langfur

No excuses. The garden’s crops burgeon
more than ever before. Chard growing in the yard
in the thick of the night. Pea pods growing up bamboo poles.
I dug up the potatoes yesterday before sundown.
The point is there is enough time to start over here.
After rueing and counting up loss, how many apples
and apricots the wild pigs stole off the ground, losses
losses along with the plan I made for a larger garden, acres
all lost when you left me for someone else and took
everything you could with you. The records and
the record player, the Navajo and the Apache rugs,
the ones I kept on my lap on cold nights after long days.
You said it would make me lucky, your gifts carrying me like
magic. Acquisitions of the heart is what I call them now.
Today I’ll pick a few green apples later in the day
when they are still hot from the sun. And bake them
with cinnamon in a glass dish. Sautee potatoes with garlic,
and a little onion. With all these I begin again. A feast
by moonlight. That’s right. Some kind of delight
all over again. Deep light all over it. A little meal,
the best is yet to be, I say. It’s the only way.