prayer

As a child

I believed prayer worked with precision:

say it right

and nothing bad would happen.

Each night I listed all my relatives

so God wouldn’t kill one.

I said the names slowly,

in order.

When I lost my place,

I began again.

Pink duvet cover.

A nightlight burning down the hours.

My mouth moving faster than belief.

I still speak to God

when I need proof I am safe.

I cross myself on busy streets,

when sirens pass,

when I walk beside graves

where the grass has gone uncut.

I cross myself

because the girls in primary school

knew when the church was coming into view

and moved their hands without thinking.

I tried to learn that timing.

I am always counting.

Always afraid of forgetting a name.

I stop

and touch my forehead,

my chest,

one shoulder,

then the other–

and begin again.