prayer (iii)

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is where words fail, tumbling
loosely into bedroom corners,
caught again by restless paces.
intercession warms the body:

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flecks of sweat shed for fever-
stained sheets. groans are lobbed
into spiritual planes, dancing 
against the sunlight, generous,

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mocking the distance from strained 
breath. we are taught to press in
to silence, the adumbrated shape
of still life, the same tableau of

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that limpid body, waiting to breathe
yet again: amen, amen, amen.
 

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lament

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why do groans not form in sentences? the wetness, red,
curves by drooping eyelids, at the edge of tiny windows. 
prayers catch in the throat, droplets keep to themselves,

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faces, lined by tubes and tightened paper, are seen only 
in snatches. language offers a loose embrace. the slow
work of the tele-chaplain, watching, waiting, in social 

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distance: the scene relayed as disembodied voice. where
does God hide when the breath is absent? when the hand
shudders and the phone howls and the masks begin to tear? 

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he groans. he only groans. 
 

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prayer (iv)

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sits at the edge of the mind, just
as it seems that the hills will melt,
as the isolated pangs in your back
descend in each vertebra, and the
ambience hones into an unsullied
suspension. sometimes it telescopes
outward, like the emerging visage
of a white building lined by trees
on the expressway, and other times
draws inward, for the torsos wet
from monsoon water, or the skin
broken by surgical masks, or the
preacher, dutiful, in an empty room. 
for every prayer is a reminder of
the death that we carry, ready to
rise, stirring into the simplest of
thank yous. sit at the table and
eat.