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.
