Anya Krugovoy Silver  reading at   St. Mary’s Catholic Church, 440 Grand St., NYC  Jan. 20, 2018

Anya Krugovoy Silver

reading at

St. Mary’s Catholic Church, 440 Grand St., NYC

Jan. 20, 2018

 A Prayer in Two Thousand Seventeen

God, I am sick and my blood counts low.

I sleep ten hours, and still feel slow.

My son pretends he’s fine, worries always,

says he’ll never be happy once I die.

I talk to you, God, the way I was taught,

vary the words so you don’t get bored.

Despite others’ groaned and shouted prayers,

don’t forget my son, who hates aloneness.

 

Icons hang from my wall, are propped on shelves.

Sometimes I take the gold and dark wood

image of your mother and hold her against my skin.

I ask her, protect my son, who loses his jackets.

 

I know that the world’s great harm—

bombings, street shootings, earthquakes—

provoke your immediate alarm.

Still, don’t ignore a child who fears growing mad.

 

You who love the poor and the orphan,

punish our sins: our registration lists, lethal

injections, deportations.  I will forgive you

my early death.  But my son, Lord, my son.

 After Israel Emiot