I Used To Pray at Night

By Elyse Berry

I used to pray at night
and speak to Spirit directly.
Now I say things like
for the love of God, get dressed!
and yes, that must hurt
all day long.

Prayer used to be the things I said.

Today, I opened that box inside where I so carefully
placed
my anxiety.
I found storage sheds full
of longing and loss,
and wondered about the multiverse—
Is there an alternative ending
out there somewhere?
Is someone wishing for a sliding door moment to what I have here?

I used to coat my petitions with sugar,
with an oh it would be so great if
or would it be too much trouble to?
Now I down them with the half-eaten sandwich left on my son’s plate
wondering who or what is enough.

But then I read how
Susan tucked violets inside Emily’s coffin,
and all of those poems written
on the scraps of daily life
for her sister to sort through in time.

And I can’t stop thinking of that half-eaten sandwich.

Or meeting the grandfather I never knew in the grace we sing, and
rush through, each day— how the words offer a container of care
for the leftovers we’ll reheat tomorrow.

Prayer no longer comes to me or I to it,
but passes through
like a holy ghost,
whispering with all sincerity,

Yes, that really must hurt

and then opens the box once again.