I talk to God in the dark.
Thank him thirty-three times.
Give praise thirty-three times.
Thirty-three times I say
I’m sorry.
I ask for forgiveness.
Often not knowing what for.
My mother used to
light incense. Stand over us
in the dark.
And send her prayers
in the smoke.
On those nights
I stayed awake.
Saw the smoke take on
the form of a woman
lost in the desert,
a man being swallowed
by a whale, a serpent
inhaling the world whole.
Mornings were greeted
by the smell of ash.
And anxiety ridden
memories we did not live,
the fear of mistakes
we had not yet made.
And love.
My existence was delivered
by sin. I wonder if God knows
I’m sorry
To be alive. Wonder if that’s why
I spent this lifetime
swallowing saltwater
in anticipation of drowning.
If living is my penance.
I wish my body was not
made of mud and ruin.
I fantasize combusting
into fire and lighting
my own way.
But none of my history
Is history enough to learn from.
My fingers do not recognize
they were made to count
prayers. My hands reach too far.
My mother does not come
into my room anymore.
Those empty nights
I still get down on my knees,
Press my head to the floor,
and search for something holy.