[Source.
Image description: At the forefront of the image is two hands together to pray. The hands are multicolour and beautifully detailed. In the background, is a blue sky and a yellow sun.]
Reader submission by Anya Trofimova.
Rosary
Sometimes words slip through
the space between
touching fingertips,
sometimes I wonder: will I always
carry you around
like scuffed elbows?
Sometimes, even I could mistake
the rosary beads biting into my skin
for blood clots.
Know that the moment my hands meet
in prayer
I am holding
two cracked fists.
A welder goes about
joining steel
the way one collects
his ironies before prayer.
The din he makes becomes so
ragged
that it might as well be the sound of
metal shrieking
for mercy.
Say, pray for us.
The last time
I wrote to the Lord, I was left
worshipping my own silence.
There’s a sin a knee
could no longer carry.
I did not know
that one could melt
away, down to their
milk teeth.
Tell me that you did not know either.
I know my chances of forgiveness
will swell
like an earthy bough, perhaps
collapsing at the welcome of confession…
in the meantime, I hope my hands become as fire-glazed as yours one day.
How can one hold a prayer
the way an empty hand can hold
so much waiting?
Perhaps at the far end of choice
is the consequence of guilt.
Perhaps
there is no alternative ending, just us,
raising an amen
like a toast.