I go down to the river to pray
I go down to the river to pray.
Its water tumbles to the Mississippi,
a major artery, open to the open sea,
alive with salt and electricity.
The ocean is the world’s big heart,
sounding its depths, eroding,
overtaking the heights,
every beat a thunderstorm, a hurricane,
a tide. Everything I am, inside.
I think of all holy rivers, life givers,
made of reeds and blood and crocodiles,
carrying boats and baskets for miles,
washing our wounds and healing
disease. They are deaf to our pleas,
all microbe and no matter. Whole cities
thirst, parched for everlasting water.
We crave a river as a river craves the sea.
I crave a current where my prayers can carry me.
