this, too, is prayer

Zuhra Amini

These days, I’m trying to gather life; not the best, nor the worst just something to get me by.

Since we last spoke, I’ve learned that everything is poetry— the way you point to the moon as if it were a fixed point and I whisper forgiveness five times a day as if in prayer; as if someone is listening.

Today I went to the coast, picked a stone to keep in memory of you. I’ll go again tomorrow, and the next, watch each wave disperse to its timely death. I’ll count each one and wonder how many more are left?

Some days, my body refuses; It has other plans, like misfired motors and tiny sparkle spasms tingling across my back.

How many times have I uttered wrong, broken, lacking in relation to the self?

What if I told you this, too, is a form of prayer?

A lumbar in distress A raised hip, stuck and stiff A knot of nerves pleading to be undone

Last night I picked and pulled at the ends, hoping to gain some respite, hoping time does not slip away, hoping morning comes anyway, hoping…

I would rather not sit here, sift through, and silo the better part of this infinite grain but the past two days have been sunny.

Most days, that’s enough. I watch the moon as it tucks itself behind a hill whisper I’m trying, growing, expansive into joined palms hold each prayer there as if they were stones.

Other days, I call you even if I have nothing to say. I’ll listen to you speak, hear hope in every catch and sigh of your breath— didn’t I tell you?

This, too, is prayer.