The Dirt of Chimayo

Image is my own
As if you erupted
from an eternal spring,
an immortal thing,
I gave you away
when last I prayed
here at Chimayo.
When kneeling
I scooped the healing dirt
as I spoke silent prayers of thanks
for my heart bravely facing
shocks of resuscitation
after years spent
barely beating
in stuttering grief.

Upon return today,
I kneel to scoop
the healing dirt,
asking in silent prayer
a blessing of forgiveness
for giving you away
too easily—
thus, killing you,
bleeding you of all hope,
beyond resurrection,
beyond resuscitation.

In the dirt of Chimayo,
this healing earth,
from this place of faith,
sifted through my hands,
I bury you, a mortal thing,
I gave away too easily
to an undeserving faith,
in this dirt of Chimayo.

Don’t

Written in response to:
https://godoggocafe.com/2020/05/19/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-may-19-2020/

Don’t.  Don’t tell me to pray.

For years, I have every day.

All that I am I’ve offered as a prayer.

Every breath.  Every bite of food.

Every step.  Counting pennies,

Dollars.  It’s all the same.

I’ve whispered, I’ve mumbled,

I’ve chanted, I’ve silently said

All my prayers for you, for myself,

For my dog, for my daughter,

For my grandchildren yet unborn,

For the world that couldn’t give a damn. 

Yes, I’ve fucking prayed for us all.

I’ve prayed while driving

With each rotation of the tires.

I’ve prayed oceans of prayers.

Prayed from here to there

In lines of crispy breadcrumb trails

Eaten by the birds for whom,

Yes, I’ve prayed too.

So, what more am I to do?

I’ve prayed in churches, in houses,

In an apartment, along the nature paths,

On walks, on runs. I’ve prayed.

I prayed in the sun, the rain,

I screamed at God during a thunderstorm,

When thunder drowned my screams

And lightning did threaten

To shut my damn mouth.

Yet I prayed. And still even in this,

I do pray with these words

Though they’ve earned no answer

Yet, so don’t entreat me to pray

This damn pandemic away.

I still do pray in every single way,

So just—don’t.