Jen Stewart Fueston

The hawk grips electric wire and waits, his brown-feathered head as smooth as if he’d slicked it back this morning with a comb, the way his keen eyes part the bent weeds...

This is the place they made the creeds. Which I suppose is like the place they split the atom. Light from light, true God from true God, hydrogen and helium...

We don’t choose what we believe in. Toddlers sing-song you can’t see me, you can’t see me, even though they’ve only closed their eyes. You know the soul...

They have named me for a woman who could pull the curtains back and peer at the ineffable by inches. I have one eye and broad wings for catching sun...