An Open Prayer

May I be pulled or chosen

from the clay, molded into

Something different.

I don’t remember

The last time I said his name.

Salt phantoms, air phantoms

Phantoms of the sun, of my

Father and the holy phantom.

/

My father’s ghosts wander my head

Stories of idyllic pastures

Of ditches brim, rifles slung

Endless walking into horizons.

/

Here my shadow leaves impressions

On the cushion, I never leave the

Comfort of my mind. I do battle

With head heroes

The heroes of my father,

All sun baked

Made mad with work

Maddening work

My father’s finger tips are cracked

And they bleed

The chemicals too rough on skin.

/

I inherited these legs from my mother

Ceaseless in rapport with the ground.

Her tales are never in open pastures

They retreat into bathroom stalls.

/

Here my shadow leaves no trace

Of belonging. I never leave the

Comfort of my mind. I do battle

With my mother’s head ghosts

Mother’s phantoms

All loving

Made mad with worry

Maddening mind

My mother chewed through her cuticles

And they bleed

The stress is too rough on the mind.

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