Threadbare

Sometimes, prayer is so hard. Even something rote, that we recite every week at church, can only spill out in pieces, little tendrils . . .

The poem was first published in The Windhover, volume 28.2, Fall 2024.

Photo by Nastia Petruk on Unsplash

Threadbare 

a few frail syllables flap
in the fraying of phrases— 

     thy, the mended fabric 
     of prayer, dangles 

before come, a tendril tattered
in the waiting of what?  

     His will, that elastic word, 
     its pull, back and forth

when done feels bound 
but instead unravels 

     into the mere babble of give; 
     spit-spun, and hung 

before bread, what’s risen,
then torn, soft in the shred 

     and unknotted for-give . . . 
     sin-seams unlace 

and lament is bound
to lead, is baste,

     until my voice cries deliver, 
     from what’s now darned

to that final forever
where I hold on—   

    so stitches stuttered

    unthreaded

    leave me tethered 

    in torn-up prayer.