the birth of prayer
Not in the ordinary moments, the long line at the supermarket,
a parking spot elusive on a busy weekend night, a baseball game
stretched to its thinnest innings. Not as a card flips over on a wagered bet,
or the frantic rifling through the racks of a final sale, or the flicker of fame
from a novel midwifed through years of hours in a quiet, empty office.
No, prayer begins somewhere even smaller, a millimeter at the back
of the throat at the announcement of hard news, a blood vessel’s little hiss
as it registers the change in the story’s rotation. And from there, a crack
opens in the body, and the flesh and bones surrender to a silent plea versed
in neither language nor boundary. And our heart spills and swells, refusing to be burst.