Ode to a God
Riley Bowen

I like it when she loves me,
when she is on the carpet in the sun,
holding a golden hand to my cheek, 
asking,  “O Sparrow what now?”
Her voice is all windchimes.

When she is deathless, on the sidewalk,
against the counter, waiting on a train, 
I am holding out for answers:

	the best place to live in summer, the right 
	thermostat setting, how to win a wishbone,  
	when the street lights come on, a letter sent—

She is a god whispering on the phone
because it’s almost the real thing;
cupping her hand against my ear.