As If It Matters

Dear Lord, fire-eating custodian of my soul,
author of hermaphrodites, radishes,
and Arizona’s rosy sandstone,
please protect this wet-cheeked baby
from disabling griefs. Help her sense when
to rise to her feet and make her desires known,
and when to hit the proverbial dirt. On nights
it pleases thee to keep her sleepless, summon
crickets, frogs and your chorus of nocturnal
birds so she won’t conclude the earth’s gone mute.
Make her astute as Egyptian labyrinths that keep
the deads’ privacy inviolate. Give her her mother’s
swimming ability. Make her so charismatic
that even pigeons flirt with her, in their nervous,
avian way. Grant her the clearmindedness
of a midwife who never winces when tickled.
Let her be adventurous as a menu of ox tongue hash,
lemon rind wine and pinecone Jell-O. Fill her with awe:
for the seasons, minarets’ sawtoothed peaks,
the breathing of cathedrals, and all that lives —
for one radiant day or sixty pitiful years.
Bravely, she has ventured among us, disguised
as a new comer, shedding remarkably few tears.

(Photos of Sophia here.)

(by Amy Gerstler. Originally titled “Prayer for Jackson”)

This entry was posted on August 27, 2005 at 4:56 pm and is filed under Love, Love, Love. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.