"My Biggest Fear Is That I'll Live Too Long"
A rosary is squeezed
as if pressure itself
could extract sin's infection,
or in each glass bead graces
were pitted.
The radio's faint hum
is like an anchor thrown
down. The leverage of this world
to lift one's prayer.
A prayer for the daughter
carried, but not held, a prayer
for the husband whose fever
these hands could not break, a prayer
for the strength to understand
why these walls seem to recede
and this bed no longer creaks
when you shift.
And a prayer for peace.
The peace to be found
in this evening's recitation,
or in the swift, sharp knock
of your tardy guest.
A rosary is squeezed
as if pressure itself
could extract sin's infection,
or in each glass bead graces
were pitted.
The radio's faint hum
is like an anchor thrown
down. The leverage of this world
to lift one's prayer.
A prayer for the daughter
carried, but not held, a prayer
for the husband whose fever
these hands could not break, a prayer
for the strength to understand
why these walls seem to recede
and this bed no longer creaks
when you shift.
And a prayer for peace.
The peace to be found
in this evening's recitation,
or in the swift, sharp knock
of your tardy guest.
(from the chapbook PRAYERS & LAUGHTER, 1990 - also published in Farmers Market; photo by me)
1 comment:
I just love this piece, but especially the photo, it's just abstract enough to take a moment to figure out what it is, kind of disorienting. Then when the viewer realizes it's a door just slightly ajar...well, it made me ache to get outta there, mirroring the poem's own claustrophobia.
Excellent, excellent stuff.
Your photography reminds me a bit of a friend of mine in Springfield, he also has a strong eye for graphics and structure, but often a second closer look will reveal more emotional undertones. I'll have to leave his link here sometime.
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