I once prayed in a circle of quiet—
closed door, closed eyes,
ink-scratch the only sound.
Now all I have to offer is prayer
in the margins—
nestled between dirty dishes,
laundered socks,
toddler stampedes.
No time for eloquence,
No energy either.
I’m blunter now, I suppose,
going for the divine jugular.
Please.
Thank you.
Help me.
Protect them.
What now?
Thank you anyway.
Have mercy.
Bless them.
Thank you still.
So I breathe blessings over sleep-tousled hair,
put hands on heads as we race to school,
exhale benedictions when I hear sirens
(for surely that’s someone’s son, if not my own).
I let prayers come
in what form they may,
amid the tornadic wildness
of these days.
I let the prayers come—
as breaths, as teardrops, as kisses.
As the beats of my own heart.
