Prayer
       

All shall be well,               and all shall be well,

and all wells shall yield               their missing

children,               and all manner of children

shall feel their bedroom walls with cold

hands                   still smelling of well water,

and all men shall cover their wells,

and how could they fail,               and how could

we all,               and if we call from the bottom

of a well, who shall hear,               and what shall

haul us out               but our own hands,               and when

shells fall               from the bowl of the sky,

shall they fall into the hollows               of our hands,

shall our hands explode               into holes, shall

our bodies crumple               like the hulls of ships,

and when the well cover closes over us

and we have not called out,               shall we still

call out in the dark,               shall we feel the walls

with our hands?               Somewhere, summer turns

to fall.               Across the hills,               the sun pulls

its small light down.

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Copyright © 2021 Claire Wahmanholm All rights reserved
from Redmouth
Tinderbox Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission