Small prayer in some aftermath

Bathala, now we must see how to wind our griefs 
       into a pullover whose sheen reminds us of days 
and nights of rain: long months when we huddled 
       in one room, tending each other in the remoteness
of your silence. Now we must remember where to find 
       clumps of fiddlehead fern and collect 
unbroken soda bottles that aren't stuffed 
       with gunpowder and twists of rope. In the street, 
there might be stray grains that couldn't be swept up 
      after the farmers' wives stormed the warehouse, 
asking for their due. There might be feathers
      fallen from the bodies of birds after the blast.
Bathala, the children and mothers gather them up
      in their skirts and pockets and add them 
to their archives: all must be accounted for. 
      We would expect no less, ourselves.


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.