“An angry prayer is
stronger.”—Adam Zagajewski, “Smoke”
I have been torn by illness, worn my
scars
like furrows that will never again
sprout seed.
I’ve shaken out the corn from the bag,
have waited for God to part the
thornbushes
that imprison my plundered body at all
sides.
Where is the joy that I’ve been
promised?
I sweep each floor looking for its
glimmer.
My days of fullness are
over: I weep
for juniper and myrtle, for clapping
hands.
I search for a corner in which I can
crouch,
where I’ll find a pitcher of milk, a
finger of wine,
on those days when I’m tired of my
parched self,
of this sickness, the scans that glow
so brightly
on the screens while skies above grow
dimmer.
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