I don’t want to pray for the unlovely,
the known mess,
a tangle of threads
complex and impervious.
I prefer ladies in distress
who live far away,
or hang from clean turrets,
prefer the noble trees
in other backyards
that need protecting,
the land-worshippers in foreign places
who do not wander my streets
looking for a lost home.
I pray for my brothers around the globe
and hesitate to mention
the knotted dirty fur
of my own black sheep.
Prayers have power,
these worded and wordless thoughts
attracting flies to my sweet knife,
and oh! I have been stingy
with the sharing,
waiting for something other than flies
to feed.