Читать книгу I Call to You from Time - Judith Sornberger - Страница 6

Prayer is a there

I often cannot enter.

However much I haunt the grounds,

pace around its stucco-washed façade,

strain my gaze through sainted glass,

prayer is a there

whose door is locked, whose incense

I too often cannot enter.

I shake the oak door in its jamb,

strain my gaze through sainted glass,

but cannot enter the within

whose door is locked, whose incense

will not enter my blood’s chambers.

I shake the oak door in its jamb,

as if it is no part of who I am,

but I cannot enter the within.

Or prayer is an element so foreign

I won’t invite it into my blood’s chambers,

an inner sea I fear to drown in

as if it is no part of who I am.

As if it is a where I can dive into,

prayer is an element so foreign

I hold my breath to enter

the inner sea I fear to drown in.

Prayer ripples and gleams darkly

as if it is a where I can dive into,

a depth I stroke against

even as I hold my breath to enter,

still holding to a vision of myself

in prayer’s ripples gleaming darkly.

Sometimes the inner sea sends up a swell,

a depth I stroke against.

I am not allowed to enter there

still holding to a vision of myself.

Still, when the inner sea sends up its swell,

sometimes I am mercifully swallowed.