Fig Leaf
Kathleen Kilcup
Language is full
of tricks, my father
reminds me. No
tree bows, a curtain
does not obscure
our view of the burning
rhododendron,
a road bears weight
but is no snake,
does not cry,
was not made
with you in mind.
Language tricks,
as nature
hides within
herself, is shy,
bruises under our
awakening, pouring out
of clarity—truth is alethia,
a palm pressed
against a window
pane. As rocks hide
the rattlesnake, so
The Holy One.