I admit
and I am not ashamed:
mostly
I pray
when I’m desperate,
when the demeaning voices in my head
have built a well so deep and dark
that I cannot remember it is day,
when I’ve pushed my fingers into the hard clay wall,
a hold that tears free in my hand the moment I pull up weight.
The water is muddy now and I can’t drink it.
God is not an insurance policy
that only if I had paid I’d have a rope to climb now.
I do not curse myself for negligence when my cup was full,
when our laughter was its own prayer.
I pray now, in the depths of my despair,
because this is where I feel God:
in the incredible immensity of the universe
pressing me smaller smaller.
I am powerless
even before the voices in my own psyche
that I know are wrong,
not to mention Earth’s desire or the unfolding of the cosmos.
What else is there to cry for
humbled and heavy
infinitesimal
than mercy?
