Withdrawing to the anteroom, I lay
disconsolate before its gilded shrine,
and bowed my head in folded arms to pray.
I importuned God for redemptive signs
confirming that he heard my plea for grace.
But learned-by-rote invocatory lines,
which I’d been taught from childhood to embrace,
seemed futile next to closed Venetian blinds.
With sun-conversant eyes, I pulled them up
and slung my parched petition at the sky.
There, torch-lit congregations hung my cup
of grief which scaled the heavens for reply.
Night’s shroud then flared,
as though my prayers were heard
by pulsing stars that never said a word.
- Trinae Ross: How I Write
- The ER at 2 AM