During my grandmother’s prayers, I would watch
the cracked earth just outside her windowpane, the dust lifting
like sermons lost in the dry air. My favorite story
was of the river that once carved through the valley,
its body endless, spilling into the fields. Less famous
is how the Big Pharm diverted it, how the heat pressed
its lips against the banks until nothing remained
but brittle bones of fish in the silt. And when the sky opened
and rain poured over us, my grandmother knelt,
cupped her hands, and drank. I wonder if she felt
the phantom taste of the old river on her tongue,
if she saw its face in the ripples, its body returning
only to disappear again. This is what I thought about
until her prayers ended, when she took my hand,
waiting for the soil to soften beneath us,
as birds pecked at the hardened ground.