The prayer that is a moving blade,
a breath at just the right moment,
a slight shift of one hip, letting
loose, letting it go, and falling.
The prayer that is listening,
only listening, saying nothing,
waiting for a point of balance
around which one spins like a top.
The prayer that sits in the darkness
like a child in their room, alone,
almost like a saint made ugly
or a monster made beautiful.
The prayer that is a bomb, that’s dropped
into your life at a hollow
point, like a perfect word heard at
the perfect moment, like a poem
you wish you had written, you wish.
The prayer that is a last weapon,
or a lost weapon (a lost soul,
a lost chance, a song’s lost ending,
a forgotten dream that changed you
even as you forgot once more
that you are changing, that we all
are changing). The prayer that you will
remember long after you’ve stopped
praying, after belief became
filled with knotted-up questionmarks
being teased patiently apart
by needlepoints that untangle
and translate things that used to be
magic and meaning into what
else now, a sense of belonging,
a sense of purpose, a sense of
what? Of letting go and falling.