Prayer Is Like A Panic Attack In That I Don’t Know Where To Place My Hands

“The body goes into such raptures of obedience.”
— Linda Gregg

Peering into the milk
of a lamb’s eyes,

I think of only the stench—

.

blood, strewn
across blades of grass.

.

The wool on her back
courses beneath my fingers,

recalls the copper beard
I caressed as a child.

.

The man who clips my wings
tells me he often dreams

of flight.

.

I’ve never found faith
to be enough to forgive—

.

perhaps this is proof

I can be unjust.

.

I want to butcher her
under the arc of a full moon,

.

let ink stain the hem
of my kameez.

.

Oblivion’s enervations better
than to live, knowing

we will one day be slain.

.

The sharpness of the blade,
a mercy I sing into her pulse.

.

A poem, the only place
I can bear 

to be this cruel.

.

At night, chest folded
against my knees, 

I pretend 

.

I am finally being held
by something larger than myself.