I think about prayer all week,
and on the night of the seventh day
I stay home
reciting dusty Catholic tropes.
I know nothing of divinity.

What I know is this:
these rooms,
these dirty dishes,
the rough spot of carpet clawed by the cat.
The dent I curl into and sleep
where my bed was sawed in half
and bent to fit into the hallway.
The night noises the boiler makes,
the upstairs neighbour.
This is enough.

If it is wrong,
this worship of small things,
then teach me the difference between
praying and begging,
pride and parody.
You, with your smeared foreheads
and your lamb of God.

I’ve never tasted lamb,
but still I know the feel of meat on my tongue.

(March 12, 2003)