Prayer to Falling

No one taught you to make pie
from apples rotting on the counter, the crust
unrolled from a box, a pinch of salt.
No one taught you to smother weeds with mulch
or to pack a tub with unwashed clothes
and set the dial—a drum that squeaks
like pain. No one taught you
to fall asleep in the dark
or to wake alone.

Prayer to Lighting Dinner Candles

Sometimes from the gas flame of the kitchen stove.
Sometimes from a click propane stick.
Sometimes a wayward spark, a mistake. Sometimes
because you want softness—camped on the cliffs above the beach,
the land so unsure it might slip while you sleep,
sometimes, sometimes, or it might cleave
for twenty-five more years.

Prayer to Wreckage

The best thing about shipwrecks is the silence.
Oh, not at first when there’s screaming gale winds
through the rigging, line becoming bass, a whole goddamn
orchestra performing up is down, life flotsam
as you roll and holler and splash and roar,
but after—the dark, direct descent,
as certain as anything: ships drop
until they hit bottom, then stop.