Sequence Poem

Prayers for the Week

I.                   Sunday

A small stone, held between my fingertips

and rolling slowly up my arm to stop

just beneath my heart. It makes me stand still

walking in the street with my hands open

and reaching up to the stars. I glance down

to see how those eyes look in the moonlight;

like leaves blowing in the autumn morning

down by the river where I used to write

love poems for the sun and odes for gravel.

I’d walk those eyes there, talk about water

colors as they drip down the page to drown.

I thought I’d seen my reflection in the cold

lapping pool full with frescoes of blonde girls

pacing dark rooms and singing of poets gone.

II.                Monday

I flip the stone, toss it through both of my hands

letting it fall slowly between heartaches

and half hearted crushes, memories of brown

and white rolled into one, down an old street

where I once laid my head in bone weary

exhaustion. Now I can see the soldiers

as they pass, surrounding me like a design,

pottery laid to dry in the dying light

forgotten by its maker, thought of as smoke

rekindling itself at every dawn

just to wander again through the dirty air.

I thought I saw my reflection in the cold

lapping pool full with frescoes of brunette girls

pacing dark rooms and singing of white sunsets.

III.             Tuesday

The stone moves to my mouth and I kiss it –

I let it stumble to the ground, bouncing once

before becoming sad and slipping away

under the covers to keep itself warm.

I take it home to those eyes     let them go out

in the night, see why my skin burns to the touch,

for my gossamer secret, why I sleep

wide awake and cold, severed from frailty

and dreams of a man in black with thick thumbs.

Once I walked with my arms held together,

straight like a rod and fading at twenty one.

I thought I’d seen my reflection in the cold

lapping pool full with frescoes of red haired girls

pacing dark rooms and singing of frozen tears.

IV.             Wednesday

One morning I woke to the ringing alarm

of a two way turn, one road buried in snow,

the other lost in the mist, shrouded hope

flying through concentration camps and ghettos.

With those two eyes now gone I grab two more

from the floor, ovals in the nocturnal sky,

beautiful in the moonlight and growing

like daisies in a field, little smiles set

every three feet for me to pick and hide

behind my ear for rainy evenings in bed

with only the future over my head,

a life that may not flourish more than two years

in the light of god’s love. I may choose to break

tradition like a stick against this stone.

V.                Thursday

A daisy trickling its leaves down my hand,

petals floating through my lungs until I sneeze,

blood pouring into the sheets until the end

of dawn, a couple of red pills and dinner

with pretty girls, no sleep and stumbling

through class my eyes bleary and red as roses.

A daisy picked and held against your nose

to count the rows of yellow potential

sprouting from the basin of loves deep roots

stretching to the earth’s core until they burn

dissipating into fog and floating

up to the half drunk rising sun, shadows

crawling through empty hallways back home

to find me in my bed lifting my eyes.

VI.             Friday

The daisy grows from the stone, settling

itself among children as they play, laughing

and bouncing around the house, my bones warm

in the soft sunlight. Now it is easy

to stand by myself, dropping these rusty weights

to the ground and letting them roll away

down the hill. I want to know each speck of light

as it dances with the world, overwhelming

and vibrating, filling you up and bringing

you back down. They walk to my early

grave full of happiness, my family:

turning me over and placing coins

on my eyes. They say I died in love;

saturated with the smell of fields of gold.

VII.          Saturday

I thought I saw my reflection in the cold

lapping pool full with frescoes of stunning girls

pacing dark rooms and singing old folk songs

to men passed out on the street, curled up

in a ball wondering if they’ll wake up

from this vicious dream soaked in angel dust.

I pulled those ovals from the sky, eyes willowed

and thoughtful, grasping me in the warmth

of a conversation in the rain. My heart

is weak and flopping slowly to the end,

my father smiling through the haze of the moon

with his thick thumbs fumbling through sepia

toned photographs. I wish only for strength;

a Sunday morning when I can rise alone.