Isobel Terry

Prayer.

And isn’t life a prayer uttering itself alive?
She, a child, kneels by her bed her eyes tightly shut,
her palms pressed close together. She speaks in whispers
lit by her bedside light. She remembers
the sound of the clock ticking in the warm kitchen.
His footsteps found flight, his breath shortened
Her bitten nails tell of when her blood flowed
with his ejaculation. In her sobbing
she sees a large turtle flying without wings.
it calms her, and suddenly from the back of her heart
her dead mother calling her name. A star of the night
tips into a void of understanding and through a thin sheet
of light, although she cannot pray, a prayer utters itself,
a prayer for my mother, I am deeply touched.

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