I see her on the bench ahead before I hear her voice,
but I know what to expect. All weathers you may
see her walking, smoking, cursing, carrying

on in her hiking boots, holding court before a gathering
only she can see. I have tried talking to her, passing
on pleasantries that feel safe to give:

good morning, afternoon, beautiful day, but she grows quiet then
as if this ordinary talk is dangerous, untrusted. I do not
know her story. Legs browned, strong, she must

have money for her smokes, and her shoulder bag hangs heavy
as she walks, her body leaning opposite for balance.
Listening to her, there’s no sense I can discern,

her tirade a mix of raw verbal filth and Bible verses.

As I pass her on the path, I am not afraid, more curious and sad
for the stops and starts in her discourse, the pauses when
she hears replies perhaps the nearby geese and

groundhogs also know. Our words float through or around her as
she wanders in a desert moaning with ghosts, giving
wisdom in tongues, receiving prophecy

from an alien host.