Words of The Lamb magazine

by Renee Emerson

Because I don’t believe it
I practice precisely, like the talentless
musician running his fingers
so unlike a lover
up and down the keys,

memorized chords, memorized words,

I run my tongue
down the prayers of David,
Jabez, Moses, of God’s own
Son who taught us sinners
how to pray in plain language,
patient as a gardener,
mistaken for one.

I write them, I speak them,
I memorize the good ones,
not my own.

I don’t ask anything about dogs
or parking spots or your lost keys
Let them stay lost.

I plead in the style of the first century
hands raised, eyes open,
in the style of a good Sunday school child
hands folded, eyes closed.

I bless every mile I travel, every bite I take,
but if God has anything to say to me,
I’ve never heard it yet.