Perhaps I should have written a prayer note
to channel its way into a small dark niche
between ancient blocks on the Western Wall,
my kvitelach. Certainly Jehovah’s ears would
have listened to my plea, scribed in black ink.

Or maybe I should have dusted myself
with smoke from silver leaves of sage
while I tied red and blue prayer flags,
to carry my entreaty on white clouds
of smoke to Heaven and the Great Spirit.

I should have kneeled, begging Saint
Anthony for a miracle or healing from
Saint Raphael, while pink quartz beads
slid between pointing finger and thumb.
Hail Mary, full of Grace. Blessed art Thou.

No doubt, I should have fallen prostrate
on my prayer rug, face towards Mecca,
and prayed to Allah, Mighty Lord
of the Mighty Throne, heal this baby girl
distress seizes her, but you, Allah are merciful.

But no, I found a green-chipped bench
and sat in the park weeping, whispering prayers
for yet another orphan from Baghdad.
In the name of the Father, the Son and the
Holy Spirit…Don’t forget her pacifier…

© Sharon Frye

View an interview with guest contributor Sharon Frye HERE

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