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