Concerning that Prayer I Cannot Make
by Jane Mead
Jesus, I am cruelly lonely
and I do not know what I have done
nor do I suspect that you will answer me.
And, what is more, I have spent
these bare months bargaining
with my soul as if I could make her
promise to love me when now it seems
that what I meant when I said "soul"
was that the river reflects
the railway bridge just as the sky
says it should -- it speaks that language.
I do not know who you are.
I come here every day
to be beneath this bridge,
to sit beside this river,
so I must have seen the way
the clouds just slide
under the rusty arch --
without snagging on the bolts,
how they are borne along on the dark water --
I must have noticed their fluent speed
and also how that tattered blue T-shirt
remains snagged on the crown
of the mostly sunk dead tree
despite the current's constant pulling.
Yes, somewhere in my mind there must
be the image of a sky blue T-shirt, caught,
and the white islands of ice flying by
and the light clouds flying slowly
under the bridge, though today the river's
fully melted. I must have seen.
But I did not see.
I am not equal to my longing.
Somewhere there should be a place
the exact shape of my emptiness --
there should be a place
responsible for taking one back.
The river, of course, has no mercy --
it just lifts the dead fish
toward the sea.
Of course, of course.
What I meant when I said "soul"
was that there should be a place.
On the far bank the warehouse lights
blink red, then green, and all the yellow
machines with their rusted scoops and lifts
sit under a thin layer of sunny frost.
my own palm --
there, slowly rocking.
It is my pale palm --
palm where a black pebble
is turning and turning.
all you bare trees
pile of twigs
red and green lights flashing
muddy bottle shards
shoe half buried -- listen
listen, I am holy.