OFFERING, BY CHRISTEN NOEL KAUFFMAN

I whisper Jesus Christ to the trees
              to see if words burden their branches

in the same way I bend with the weight
              of everything I pick up and carry in my mouth.

It’s an endless cycle of sun and then rain,
              of one night in a tent we erected under trees

just to see if we could last and if maybe
              there are wolves who still hunt late at night.

I’ve heard their snarling since the day
              I was born, since my body slipped egg-thick

into someone else’s hands, but there’s a tree
              standing alone in a median between highways

I always knew I couldn’t get across.
              When I carve Jesus Christ in cursive on my leg

I imagine a graffiti tag, the signature an artist
              leaves on blown glass, as I want to be loved

on my mother’s favorite quilt.
              Tell me what to do with these hungry mouths

and this body I don’t know how to touch.
              Every time the copperheads find a way

into potting soil we keep beside the house,
              I want the trees to take communion with rows

of empty bikes, to remember how it feels
              under canopy of endless sky, and Jesus Christ

it’s an ocean of need I can’t contain, can’t keep
              from spilling down my favorite red dress.

When I dream, there are circles of wolves
              outside the tent and I meet them in the dark,

bare skinned beneath the trees.
              I welcome their teeth against my back.

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Christen Noel Kauffman lives in Richmond, Indiana with her husband and two daughters. Her work can be found in Tupelo Quarterly, The Cincinnati Review, Willow Springs, DIAGRAM, Booth, Smokelong Quarterly, and The Normal School, among others.