Prayers spiral from your flaccid, gaping palms
it’s not a question of sums, it’s a matter of compassion.
Poverty keeps me grounded but it is of little external use.
I am no saint, I’ve suffered more than I have saved
but whenever I give, I give fully and without regret.

My heart is a mobius strip, an itch that never settles.
I tear myself in great strips like wallpaper
but there’s always a room to be made, a custom
to which I must adhere even if my presence appears aberrant.
I lay my chips on the table but my intuition betrays me.
My life isn’t special but to me it means everything
and I won’t let you have it, not for all the lace in the world.

Lists orient me, without them I might remain
locked in the diagonal, a hapless mote
swathed in whatever light the window weeps.
I run from myself but she always gives chase.
She is singing and pleading and I cannot imagine
her face without distress. I do not welcome her,
I even question her loyalty.


4 thoughts on “Wordle #297


    Mama’s rosary prayers spiraled up
    to Heaven where angels and saints gathered
    the beads into red velvet pouches laced
    with stringed gold filigree. Gems, jewels,
    treasures, they called them. The list goes on.
    In procession, they brought them to His throne.

    At night, her prayers included everyone,
    naming us aloud, asking divine grace.
    The sum of her life? Obey God’s Will.
    It was as if her soul itched to run
    with the Lord. She would not settle for less.


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