Poem: Prayers
I packaged my prayers in a powder blue box
and sent them to heaven by the wings of a dove.
They tell me that I can ask for anything
in the name of the son and the father will deliver, but
when he loads his bow with the arrow of my supplication
to shoot it soaring back down to earth, they tell me
that magic words cannot eclipse the father’s iron will.
I choose to believe in magic, believe that my doves
do not whisper into wax stuffed ears, do not float
asphyxiated through a silent infinity of gas and dust.
They are being seized in flight by cloud pirate goblins,
sharp winged and foul breathed, poised to grasp with
hell whetted talons at sweet flying things.
They are supping on the tear blessed fruit of my anguish.
They are wiping my pleas from their dripping chins
like the juice of a peach.