Aubrey Jane Ryan

Making the Prayer 

Plant garlic. Count each blade of grass. Set a match
to the hem of your gas soaked dress. I don’t know
how to call his name, and anyway how tired I am
of tracking God. My friend has a lake
she navigates; she climbs its old, black cliffs
and scatters herself as seed. She plummets;
she hits the water which is a fist of cold,
and it opens. You won’t see, but she
will tell you: the belly of the lake is the color
just behind her skin. Ask me about God, and I
won’t know, but the night he was born
I was water and the rock it breaks. He came
from so far away. I was quiet and small in his arms.

 


 

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