It is an easy thing to stay silent,
easier than being invisible.
I don’t need to pray kneeling or bowing;
I don’t need beads in my hands; I don’t need
a book to teach me how to hold my heart
apart, to walk through the world with a space
that spins inside me like a gyroscope,
a center to broken and blooming hopes.
The words of prayer are a constant murmur
beneath all other thoughts, polished by use
and worn down into droplets like music,
sounds that do not carry meaning, but are.
The rosary is re-learned as a touch
of fingertip against skin, counting bones
instead of beads. Here’s how: gripping the wrist
counts off decades, moving slowly upward.
Hands held just so. They mean something. A pose
that says here is a beginning, and here
an end. No one else sees. No one needs to.
Forget the beginning. Forget the end.
The heart prays without words, erratically.
The prayer reduced to silence, spins away,
spins so perfectly it seems to have stopped.
It’s silence is so loud it deafens me.