AS IF TO BELIEVE IN PRAYER BY PENELOPE SCAMBLY SCHOTT

As if to believe it could work,
that someone is listening,
that it differs from wishing,

as if to believe
the coyotes on the hill
are calling for you

as you stand at the midnight window
watching the stars for long enough
that the stars move,

as you lean west with the planet
that carries the ashes or bones of those
who loved you before you were born —

it’s like the heavy saucepan in your kitchen
where your dead grandmother made soup
with lentils, celery, ham bone, prayer,

and while you are tasting the soup,
a small gray bird is rattling the feeder
chirping Now, Now,

the permanent Now
you have entered briefly, that Now
from which you know you will depart.