before the smoke of the candle reaches You?
these hands have stayed curved to protect
the weak flame about to die out.
the wick can only hold so much of my plea
until the wax melts into its origins. so close Your eyes,
meditate. look for the sound of my voice.
i have blown out too many wishes on frosting for You
to say i am not trying hard enough. i have not grown
wiser, only
restless.
You have taught me that cruelty comes in all forms:
in the irony of witnessing my grandmother,
who tinkered on cadavers, being tinkered on;
in Your glare through clouds while i beg on
bruised knees and strained voices for a cure
to my vomiting wallet. in Your silence, in Your inaction,
in Your indifference to my pain. people have claimed
that You show up in the faces of the ordinary, but
invisible halos are difficult to sense.
i’m starting to believe You’re a myth, unless
You lay strips of cooling gel at the peak of my fevers,
or give advice i didn’t ask for, but needed over a text.
maybe You have the crooked smile of the man next door
who tells me to drop by Your house and offer You
my hurt. he pushes me to bring a candle and be in solitude, so
i cut through the line of invocations and squeeze
the white wax in tight gaps, watching the gray trail
from the blaze disappear into the ceiling.
when i close my eyes, i am almost certain
the smoke has reached Your door.
still, i wait for it to open. F
