Paula Bohince


Adore me, Lord,

beneath this raw milk sky, your vision

of silvery cream comprising daylight.


I’ve kept our appointment

in the barn, board after board of pine

hewn by us,


sit beside the pig we chose

for his mildness

who smiles, now, in his waste.


I abide by the chickadee

who stutters in, a little obsessed

with the mirrored chimes, her baffled image.


Our saddles, oiled on thick nails,

gleam from the walls like 3-D portraits.

Something must be wrong


or else you would answer—

my father in heaven who speaks to me

when no one else will speak to me.



“Prayer” first appeared in The American Poetry Journal, Vol. 1, Issue 2.