They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Prayer at 3 a.m. | Dexter Booth

I washed your father’s pants in the kitchen sink.

That should have been enough to tell you.

I am still convinced there is no difference

between kneeling and falling if you don’t get up.

The head goes down in defeat, but lower in prayer,

and your sister tells me each visit that she has learned

of a new use for her hands.

I’ve seen this from you both: cartwheels through the field

at dawn, toes popping above the corn stalks like fleas

over the heads of lepers. Your scarecrow reminds me

of Jesus, his guilt confused for fear.

The sun doesn’t know; the fog lifts

everything in praise.