Joseph Lease


Prayer, Broken Off

                                        1

          a stain of faded storm light in my hand—

If I cried out,
Who among the angelic orders would
Slap my face, who would steal my
Lunch money, knock me
Down—sailboats moored
In harbor, trees on the long
Breakwater, orange shimmer
Of late July evening—I can’t stop
Wanting the voice that will come—

                                        2

          Simon says, put your hands on your head, Simon says, put
your finger on your nose, Simon says you haven’t done enough,
Simon says you don’t care enough, Simon says, you can’t stop
caring—

          Oh look at you—once again you’re a
machine made of words, once again you’re
a death, a failure, your responses always too big and dirty
                                                  and you want them to get bigger and
dirtier—

                                        3

to give
the storm a local
habitation and a name,
and small wind bring
down rain—echo and
window, self and all selves,
each day tears the air to
bits—and small wind bring
down rain—were you—did
that mirror, again, feed
you—when the moon rises,
black plums
taste like whisky, pieces
of mirror
          sweep blue wind—