|
|
Van Hartmann | PrayersI cannot pray to God;
my mouth fills with bone and ash.
I think I can pray
to the soft patina of snow
that was setting the world aglow,
as I walked home from your bed
at three this morning.
I pray that it smoothes the brow
of her grave,
waters her dust,
cools her fever,
and flake by downward drifting flake
wraps my grief in silence.
I think I was praying
when I sank
between your white thighs.
I prayed again, to her,
when I lay awake,
the new angles of your body
awkward against mine,
where hers once fit,
asking perhaps permission,
or grace.
And having come home
to the dog who has grown large
from the puppy I gave her,
I think my letting it use its bulk
to pull me out again
into the falling snow
before I settle at last
into my own bed, her bed,
was a prayer.
|
|
|
