Prayers are Mist and so Many Things
I read in an old book about God, that you could
hold a prayer like snow.
That it could sit there in itself, being what it was,
until it wasn’t anymore.
I tried to hold hope on the tip of my tongue,
but it turned into wishes and those never come true.
Once a prayer flew into my window.
It landed on my bed shaped like a leaf.
The trees were not missing anything from what I could see,
but my eyes saw the bark and the roots,
so I prayed it was real.
That’s all I could do.
Poetry Rejection from a Graduate Student Press
Send me your saddest words so I will search for
the broken heart, or open vein, with my wrist
out the window shouting to my friends.
Maybe I can share the lost children that came from
broken bodies, or curled under myself when I was
younger, and afraid of the staircase under my bed.
They will scratch their head comments, and around
the table blues; I bet they wear rusty jeans and have
tee-shirts with band names no one remembers listening to.
Sometimes their designer coffee stays frozen
in the pottery cup the editor made in summer
camp, before she got skinny and wore a bra.
I am not mad at them for not seeing the deep
Bronx scars I wrote across the page in
Baskerville Old Face instead of Times New Roman.
Amy Soricelli is a 62-year-old educator from the Bronx, working remotely and not climbing the walls.