Wednesday, August 17, 2022

Poem: Unopened Prayers


I own a prayer book
that reminds me of Nonna,
the way she would recite from her hymnal
while rocking in her front-porch chair.

She whispered a string of sibilant “s”-s,
audible only to young boys and house cats.
The words themselves were beyond our reach
as my grandmother conspired with God.

So I’ve saved this book,
but I’ve never opened it.
Instead, I pretend I am young,
blowing seeds off a dandelion.

Facing the sun, lips pursed,
I watch particles of dust rise
from my book cover to the heavens,
like incense.


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