Volition

  

I don’t pray in my dreams.

 

The notion of God

isn’t even a dream

in my dreams, because

beyond the shoals

of heavy drowse

there—in the deeper, blacker waters

I’m in the moment

treading thoughts

thoughtlessly.

I’m in this moment

and this moment too,

like an animal

who doesn’t pray

but dies ok.

 

Morning claims me, reigns me in.

My silver cord is tensile

resilient, intact—

for now.

I open my eyes

in prayer

in need

desirous as always, resuming my petition:

 

Our Father, Mother may I?

Forgive me, and give me this.

Fill me up and top me off.

Make me whole; make me rich

and pretty and smart and

oh yes, pious.

Give me this, God,

and I shall flatter you

with grateful oblation.

 

I’ll have the whole world

begging you for scraps of grace,

for miracles and resolutions.

And for help finding lost things.

Just a word from me, God,

and all this could be yours.

You know what you have to do.

 

Moments?

Who can bother with moments

when there is only lack?

How can I be present

with pieces missing?

And even though I give God

excellent suggestions

on ways to make my life better,

he wakes me up inside my dream,

calling my name, convincing me

there are no other names.

–Cindy St. Onge