I pray out of weakness,
out of the hollow bones of hope,
knees bent on shadows,
words thin as smoke
rising toward a sky I no longer know.
Prayer,
false comfort,
yet I weave my whispers
as if they might catch
some invisible thread
of grace—
one of these prayers
half-finished, half-believed,
perhaps will slip through
the tiny crack
in heaven's indifferent door.
I offer up this fragile breath
for her, always her,
my heart twisted,
my faith shaking,
knowing full well
I'm a fraud
on holy ground.
If there is a God
(and here the word stumbles,
oddly shaped in my mouth,
awkward as an old friend
met after years apart),
surely He sees me
transparent and trembling,
my prayers foolish,
my soul a stammering lie.
Yet still
I pray,
I pray into darkness,
into uncertainty,
into absence
as deep as oceans,
each syllable a desperate offering
to whatever might be listening
behind this silence—
hoping against reason,
against myself,
against doubt
that He
or something like Him
will cradle her gently,
will mend what I cannot mend,
will fill the empty spaces
my helpless hands leave behind.
I pray even though I cannot,
I pray though the words choke me,
I pray to become
everything she needs
and nothing I am—
small, fumbling prayers
that vanish like whispers
in the infinite hush
of a universe
too large
to notice
my small,
aching voice.
