I birth a stillborn prayer from my hips
As night skims to day
Night withholds integrity
Night, the politician
Promises me a list of goods
For each is a bad
Good number one two three and four
Stand atop a box titled “hope”
Wedged between frontal and occipital lobe is a closet
of stillborn hopes
Good number one is my love calling me on the telephone
Good number two is mom and dad saying we’re so sorry
Good number three is going back in time to second grade to do it right this time
And good number four is a big house
My bible of goods died in a fire
called night
Bad number one tells me to assume no
Bad number two will never get me
Bad number three weaves a tight knot of
discouragement shame and curly black hair
Bad number four is the matted beige carpet
I sit on
A stillborn prayer escapes my hips,
I write an appeal to the most high,
Logos ethos pathos my way to a miracle,
Blink his face out of my eyes one last time,
I fling it in the air
