The Oldest Prayer
Photo by Diana from Pexels.
I do not believe in god
The way most sanctuaries do.
No architecture of certainty,
That suffering is accounted for
Somewhere beyond the ceiling.
But I believe in breath,
The animal instance of it.
The ribcage lifting
Even when the heart has given up its argument
Air entering the body
Like an undeserved mercy
And I believe in the way
A stranger’s eye can hold you
For half a second too long,
Not desire, not recognition,
Something older,
As if two nervous systems
Briefly agree
Not to abandon the world today.
I have seen holiness
In the way grief is carried.
Someone washing a cup
After a funeral,
Someone answering mail
With a swollen cheek,
Someone laughing by accident
And then covering their mouth
As if joy were a betrayal.
Joy returns anyway.
As a trespasser.
A beam of light on the floor
A joke overheard on the bus.
The taste of pomegranate
So vivid it startles you
Into remembering
You are alive
Some days my faith
Is no larger
Then the ends of my mouth.
I wake
Dry, sour,
With the evidence of having survived
Another unconscious night
And I stay,
Because breath
Is the oldest prayer
I still know how to make.
