this morning
a woman walked alone
through the park
early sixties maybe
black mullet
lycra shorts
cutoff cotton shirt
the sleeves removed
close to the seam
across her chest
in white and red:
TRUST GOD
NOT GOVERNMENT
i heard instruction
or warning
the path continued
smooth beneath her
trust GOD
not government
sprinklers turned
their measured arcs
across the grass
trust god
NOT government
a city truck
moved slowly
along the curb
trust god
not GOVERNMENT
trash emptied
branches cleared
a bench bolted into shade
four words
and already
i had made her unreasonable
given her
the voice
i needed
the shirt to have
i believed the park
proved me right
because i trusted
the government enough
not to see it
the path
the water
the doggy bags
the expectation
that she could walk alone
and keep walking
but the stress was mine
nothing on the shirt
said where
to place the weight
nothing told me
what had failed her
what had held
what god meant
inside her mouth
or whether the shirt meant anything
beyond the shirt
she passed beneath the trees
black cotton gathering
beneath one arm
for several steps
god disappeared
then government
then both returned
with her stride
the path held her weight
she did not thank it
Dustin Miller is a Dallas-based poet whose work appears or is forthcoming in Cathexis Northwest Press, Eunoia Review, Jackdaw Review, Audience Askew, Icebreakers Lit, and Wingless Dreamer. His poems explore embodiment, desire, language, queer identity, place, and the systems that shape intimacy.