If there is prayer, there is a mother kneeling, hands folded to a private sign. We recognize it. If there is a mother kneeling, hands a tent, she is praying or she is crying or crying and praying at the same time. Although it is recognized, the signals of it, it is private and no one knows, perhaps not even she, the content of the prayer, and perhaps its object. If there is a mother praying, she is on her kneels over some object, as one does not often pray in the middle of the room. One prays at the window or over the bed, the head bent slightly up or down, the eyes open or closed. This is a prayer for prayers, you know, a wanting something equal to a prayer, even though I am not a mother.
As if the tender body is. As if the will is tender
And like any creature that has its hood up, you
take a photo of yourself in front of a window, rain
so dark, the day/perspective so desired. You are so
desperate for beautiful adventure, the lights shut off
and the sweat of some hot stranger in your mouth. As if
to say “before” is to enter a house filled with teenagers
piled on top of each other. Did I tell you that it’s raining?
It’s not hard to think that it’s already night and necessary,
how any green is a wild form, and lastly, I don’t want to
inspire devotion if it means the I becomes separated from the world.
To travel into and out of place […] swift unnature of staying
becomes a frequency […] you can no longer hear, the construct
of happiness, for example, how we long for a heartbeat.
Cement lot […] aching willow tree, our bodies [before] beneath
splay, all sinew and glean, black drape and raw confidence. It’s 1986
and freedom is something inevitable, the way brown boys run
shirtless, invisible siren roaring toward a fit mouth to bit it, O
from saying lightness, from—
What is the opposite of devastation? Fruit?