by Tyler Wettig
I believe a morning prayer is just this: conversation. There’s myself, humiliated saviors, and the disbelief we share.
Now the morning hours: we circle silent like
Stonehenge before my stepping into sandals,
always by my bedside, into light of the latest day.
I was probably dreaming about Grandparents,
gone seven years now—as I do most nights—
of their great fêtes and paintings I hang
in my own rooms.
I’m stepping into weekends, my worst days, and my wife is awake now. The sheets, still pressed— shall I tell her I’m not here?