How We Pray
Monday
This afternoon a mystic sits cross-legged,
Buddha-like in meditation. A hymn
ascends from his saxophone.
Tuesday
Near dawn and a woman stretches out, face up,
and stares at a ceiling without stars. Somewhere
her lover loads secret bombs into jets.
Wednesday
Tonight, a husband lies on his side. His wife curls
into him as he cradles her remaining breast.
Her breath murmurs in supplication.
Thursday
At school, a 6-year-old shelters under
a desk. He wets his pants as he softly
cries for his mommy.
Friday
Another grandfather, prostrate on his prayer
rug, struggles to find the words for a son
blown into a thousand random vowels.
Saturday
This Sabbath, a rabbi stretches out his hands,
now without fingers, and gathers all
the children into the sanctuary.
Sunday
Each week a man steps out
of a golf cart, pockets his phone,
then carelessly tees off.
When did you fall?
There was a woman stranded in a ditch on the side of the road. I passed by
on the other side and did not stop to help.
Do you have a headache?
The first time he spoke, I thought he was a clown who drank cheap wine.
How is your vision? Blurred or doubled?
Yesterday, the faces of everyone were clear. Today, they are translucent or
smudged.
Do you have any dizziness or problems with balance?
One box contains my resume, the other my eulogy. I don’t know
which one to bequeath to my children?
Are your words confused or have you been saying things that don't make sense?
When I look in the mirror and open my mouth, I see money.
Have you had any nausea or vomiting?
There are times when I can’t stand this body. Every day I miss
the heart I once had.
Do you remember what happened?
It was 2015. June. A lifetime ago. The stairs moved
slowly, but there were no stars.
She reaches out her hand, then takes one step closer.
With masks on, we dare to sit closer than six feet.
She cups my right hand, palm up, in her left,
then pours sanitizer on my fingers.
She traces the ridges of my life
line as she rubs the liquid
over my palm. I curl my
fingers arounds hers
as we look up
and wait
for what
seems
forever.
Le Hinton
Le Hinton is the author of six poetry collections. His work can be found in The Best American Poetry 2014, Little Patuxent Review, the Baltimore Review, Valley Voices, the Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and at www.LeHinton.com.