The night I forgot how to pray

by Lauren Mesina

I licked my palms to know what the road felt like—how the slick-wet slob of Earth— we drove through—managed to hold us. I remember someone in the back asking me about Christianity and all I could think about was where I put my rosary—how I needed it to know water beading down vision, the way sweat performs for your attention, asking you to recognize yourself in the slow rolling. Sometimes I can feel it. The Mother, I mean, and Jesus— he let us lick every crumb of communion, he was a mother, too.

I think a prayer is here somewhere.