Silent Prayer

Silent prayer photo


Lord, let us come to life, the intake

of breath after

stale air, a churning sunrise,


mist falling back

and brilliance

of color-cracked galaxies.


let us reach up and touch it—

liquid glass,

a ripple and then it crashes down,


cool motion and foam at our feet.




Mosquito bites tattoo our ankles.

A stone bench with blue velvet

lacing the horizon,

as words try to capture what a lifetime means.



My words beaten into formulas,

a Babylon Tower.

They do not hold the breath of sparrows,

the soft chanting of the lake.



In the 3 minutes and 30 seconds it takes for my bagel to toast, I lie on the floor with my Bluetooth speaker sitting right above my ponytail. It plays Jewish Violin Music, the high notes like cold water, trickling over the top of my head to my fingertips. I close my eyes and only feel what the music tells me to feel:

Longing. So much longing.

Anguish so deep it darkens your soul but is still somehow beautiful.

And then the toaster oven dings and I eat and I write an essay about Deism, Concurrentism, Divine Compositionalism, and Occaisonalism. But outside the window, the row of skinny evergreen trees sway in the wind like a row of hooded monks in prayer.




Wasps burrow into my ears,

sleek bodies wriggling deeper, scrambling legs

scraping the small hairs of my ear canal.


Wait, every cell alert,

for needle to venom my veins: black threads to strangle my mind,

damage the fragile structure forever.

I am irreparable.


I attempt to pick them out with tweezers

but they pluck apart – bits of abdomen and orange blood

mashed against my eardrum

but I know:


a stinger can release its venom even after the wasp’s death.