Arian Katsimbras

Issue #
February 28, 2015

Prayer for This Kind of Drought

Listen, the faithful told me the dark

is too much for me, or it’s the

father I danced against, the poverty

in his knuckles; the poverty I ran

my fingers over when I pooled in

his chest. Listen, I know the poor

have something to say about the

names I keep latched in my throat.

I know the consummation of

thievery and faith, the how of

hammering myself into his bones,

how I’ll pour myself into him, how

I toss blood into bloom, phantom

rain against sidewalk, wet the

world with his music. I think father

in prayer. Listen, he is interested in

this kind of invocation, and, like

me, is a believer want for the

semiundress of salvation: peel

yourself back and back until what’s

left is only a pair of hands. Listen.

Listen, curl your tongue around

this knifehandle, father. Taste the

salt in our name. Taste your sweat

under my tongue.

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