Oh lord, hear our prayers.
Hear those unmoving, unmoaning mounds
under blankets and newspapers on the frozen streets.
Hear how mothers of broken children,
no matter how lost, keen silently.
Hear each of us whose living skin has been flayed
by betrayal and our own salted tears. 

Now lord, hear our cries of recognition
as we see you in a flaming leaf’s spiral,
incense rising above the coffin like hope,
snow studded with red berries, this bright world.

What’s the Worst That Can Happen?

You meet for drinks, pinot gris for you,
pinot noir for him, trade the usual blah-blah
while trying to get a read—a bead?—on each other:
he’s tall, you’re thin, he’s Jewish, you’re not,
he’s smart, you’re smart, it’s like inventory
at a human being store. You have buyer’s remorse,
reluctant to make such a big purchase again.
Instead you try an installment plan but it stalls
as you try to squeeze yourselves into calendars
fat with trips, children, doctors, dogs, past life workshops,
baseball games, swing classes, legal conferences—
at this rate, you won’t even be holding hands
until next year, and you’re impatient to find out
how a new body might fit your old body,
will they click into place like toy magnetic trains
or will his skin grate your skin raw?
Then he says you’re off the hook, he’s met someone,
of course you’re insulted, yet you know you want
to be alone with your own words, your ferns,
cosmos, white peaches on a warm day,
feeling a tiny puff of air like a lover’s touch.
What’s the worst that can happen?
You end up being the only witness
to your life, and six out of seven days,
you try to believe that’s enough.
On the seventh day, it is more than enough.