The prayer is alive when the sound of it is
in sync with the pounding of my heart.
The drumming of my pulse, a background beat
to the screams locked in my gut and the
mother tongue in me is born in the memory of
the women that cried before me and clamped their teeth down
on the pillow so their babies didn’t hear.
The prayer is alive when I rise from my body and float above it,
looking down, watching his hand grab fistfulls of the back of my head and know
I buried my face from even me up here,
suffocated in the corner of the ceiling, but the angels are singing.
The prayer is alive when Light fills the room and drags me
from the stain between my legs and lifts me to the sky
so the singing of the stars can drown out his grunting.
The prayer is alive when I slam back into my body and the
presence of angels still ripples through me,
when my body is numb but I’m still somewhere inside it,
listening to the sound of the cosmos chanting my name.