Divination in the Midwest

I didn’t know how to offer the praying mantis
my window blinds without jeopardizing
girlhood, the way god speaks to some men
but never to me. How lonely the silence
of a seedpod, late September when I cut
a salamander’s tail to see if they bleed.
I’ve done nothing to deserve salvation, lost
the gold ring my mother said would bring me
luck. The way she held it on a string above
my aunt’s swollen womb, only to say girl.
Instead of holy water, give me the milk snail
to cleanse these muddy hands, hold me accountable
for every plucked wing.