a prayer for times of desperation
let me sink into the arms of the Mother
and clutch my way back to her hidden and sometimes barren womb
that once claimed me and held me infinitely
and balanced my embryo between space and time.
spared from the range of human emotion
only an egg and a sack of skin and flesh and bone
tightly wound in a sequence of repeating letters
of primordial stew.
let me be seated in the arms of The Virgin Mother,
wounded and bleeding and wearing a crown of thorns
that I have fashioned out of my own desperation,
the thorny and wild crown that seeps into my skull
and where milk flows from my mouth and eyes
let there be honey instead.
and let there be the sweet lilies adorning my crown
while Saint Peter paces at the gate waiting for my return.
oh, my prodigal son!
let me crawl into the mouth of God like a moth
with wings and all,
gently seated on the back of her tongue
where I will devour the soot of anger
and swallow last Sunday’s cigarette butt without any qualms for I will
be the gift that keeps on giving.