Thoughts and prayers are going
to do about as much good
as t-shirts or windbreakers would,
but a bowed head seems fitting—
I could do that. A raised hand
casting a silhouette on old siding
reminds me that—no matter
how solid I seem—light
shows us to be nothing
but shadows waiting to happen.
My turn’s coming. I used to think
my chances for a peaceful end
were pretty good, that I’d go
like one of the old ones—in bed
mumbling and delirious in the room
where we slept for forty years,
or with family standing over me
as I let go of my last breath
in the same hospital where
I saw my son come into this world.
I can hope, but I’m guessing
the end won’t draw such a circle.
Floods, fires, soldiers, famine,
bombers and cold-blooded men
with long guns and backpacks
stalk my nightmares. Prayers?
Go ahead; I won’t mock you,
even if your first words are
“Dear Heavenly Father” or
you finish “in Jesus’ name.”
What do I got that’s better—
my bitter thoughts, heavy
and grim as a box full of bullets?
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Matthew Murrey is a poet whose writings have appeared in various journals such as Tar River Poetry, Poetry East, and Rattle. He received an NEA Fellowship in Poetry a number of years ago, and his first book manuscript is seeking a publisher. He is a high school librarian in Urbana, Illinois where he lives with his partner. They have two sons who live in the Pacific Northwest.
Photo by Mila Young.
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