You’ve turned me into a prayer,
but I think it's cheating to shave off
time in a cathedral for minutes washing.
It's an act. Admit it.
Admit that today, right now,
you’d rather be hanging warm jeans
than kneeling or genuflecting crisply
besides some splintering pew.
Square it for yourself now.
There are flaws in how you were taught
that you need to stack prayers with t-shirts.
A prayer isn't a sundress.
Prayers nestle into the quietest
most ignored parts of you until
they're so ready they’re incorrigible.
Prayers float up from the gut
to the heart; words oxygenating
emerge in the tune of a songbird.
This is my prayer for you: stop hampering
yourself with the mundane and half empty.
Stop balling up the sacred like its socks.
Written beside “Chore” by Angela Narciso Torres
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