Prayer

A poem from the collection chronicles of entering my body

(Hypatia Publications 2021).

If you wish to pray for me,

do not ask for my desires to be fulfilled,

do not ask for less pain if I’m to have more,

an easier life if I am to have tougher,

conquest over my dreams if I’m to have defeat,

wealth, if I am to have none.

Simply close your eyes and ask for faith:

in birds flying southward to reach their winter land;

in trees to keep to their seasons of birth and growth;

in rains to carry within their droplets the music

of the wind and mountain pines;

in the earth to take me along

its orange-purple-green,

so I may reach out and touch the Sun.

If you wish to pray for me,

do not ask for things you think I need or those

you feel are needed for living.

Do not ask for water upon my tongue

when thirstiness overtakes me,

or for food each day to feed my palate

and give me vigour,

or for the joy of sleep when I have none.

Ask for hunger so I may learn the agony of want,

for thirst so I may feel the anguish of absence,

cold so I may discover the secret of warmth.

And ask for love so I know the torment of rejection.

If I am to be blessed with a body, let me feel

the craving that comes at the point of starvation,

the pains that tear it into pieces.

Let me in my journey across the many impasses,

swallow my darkness

so I may become my own light.

Ask for me a song that tunes in

with melodies of the earth and rain;

ask for breath from the outside to infuse

into my own so I may dance to the rhythms

trapped in all of life around me;

ask for a will that works toward perfecting

not the contours of my outer shell

or the organs that gratify and oblige

but one that pounds my bones to dust

and cuts my flesh to shreds.

Ask for a heart that can be washed and re-washed

with my tears of blood and salt.

And yes, if you must, then ask for fire

that will tower and rage and burn

to ashes this vessel that locks me within

so I may unfold my many wings and soar.

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