the little girl knows her bedtime by the utterance
of words from the other side of the wall, when her mother
faces the duet congregation and gestures about
noah and the ark; when she passes tongue
over numbers and psalms,
then her father becomes the quiet
sacrifices voices for the words of god
before their goodnight
there from her side, she thinks how early
it is still, the time god chooses to preach
and though the walls are thin
the holy words are muffled
as if in a dream
while when scripture wanes the prayers
are picked up, or when there are longer
pauses between passages, she stops
thinking perhaps it is finally for sleep
but the pages so thin like flammable
moth wings, preserved,
serve no fairy tale
and it is only when her heart
is content; when her eyes are sore
that she makes her own sign
of the cross, no matter
finished, their prayers
long, before her.
–
Something completely experimental (more so than others, anyway); a nearly sad attempt to revive a poem I’d written around two years ago and almost forgotten, had not a few sheets of yellow pad been found.
Also, how the writing has waned; therefore thinking about excuses for stories again, or perhaps something more tight, more compact.
Tagged: Jewel Kilcher, music, poetry, writing exercise
