PRAYER

Bruised knees collapse 

onto cracked pavement

and the faults strip skin

from heavy bones. In the descent,

two hands fold like paper,

and fingers tangle to cross 

and clutch a Savior. Two eyes close

like wooden church doors. Faith

is blind. Faith is an unseen dream.

A voice stirs quietly between teeth

and tongue, like a cigarette 

lit in the rain: Dear God,

can You hear me from my place in Hell?

The pavement becomes a pew,

unbending broken posture

while a heart breaks like bread

in the bloody palms of mercy. 

Nails crack at the edge

of their reach and scrape the scalp

of a bowed skull. A cheek rests

upon the dirt that has become

a makeshift altar,

like a lamb lost at midnight.

A whisper builds itself

into a scream: Dear God,

can You hear me from my place upon Earth’s dust?

An open wound tries to close

itself like the book of Psalms

at its end.  A wrist

twists to find strength in the weakness while

two fists curl to defend the silence,

knock against bent knees 

to make noise, then unravel 

to reach for a ghost— empty

flesh.  A believer’s lips

move to mirror a disbeliever’s 

recitation of youth, like a preacher

on the verge of atheism: Dear God,

can You hear me from Your place in Heaven?

-Iris