Prayer

When I was younger, my Great-Grandmother took me Into the cricket walls of sanctuary, We would sit in pews of careful coordination Recite prayers, weakly sing unrhythmic hymns.

I recall that, as a child, I never knew how to bow my head Instead, I lifted mine, Drinking in the heavens, Looking God in the eyes.

Tugging at my grandmother’s sleeves, Mid-prayer, mid-thought, mid-slap of the hand, “Why do we look down? Isn’t God in the sky?” “We are looking down at the devil, we are telling him that we are not afraid.”

By Starr Osborne