A boy is writing a Psalm with salty tears & infusing them into thin airs to the heavens.
I begin this prayer with a string of beads in the rosary
& burning Psalm 121 in my tongue.
I lift my eyes to the mountains, but the heavens are hidden.
This boy is a metaphor for a church that’s run out of faith
How much rain must the desert receive before it turns into an ocean?
Water is good at forgetting; it sustains & drowns.
My body is made of water; I keep inundating myself
The world mistakes my drowning for a wave.
The storm, the blessing of the rain
Forgive me. Forgive me, Lord. Hold me in your hand like the sky carries the moon & its lightness. Cover me with your grace like
the cloud covers the sky. I gravitate & become light like a strand of a feather. Like rain, I fall, but still, the ground isn’t welcoming.
I don’t walk, I fly. This is far from ascension—I transfigured.
I leave my reflection like a ripple in the water.
I want to kill two birds with a stone:
One in flight in the sky, & its reflection in the water.
Lord, my body is a landscape of thoughts reaching out to you—
If night clouds my vision, Lord, let your grace be my light.