A Prayer for Thomas

Not that he was a church-going man,

more one to live his truth alone in the forest,

far from trees

beaten down into kneelers.


Not that come Sunday, he’d mind a little

godly boogie woogie in the backwoods,

a samba for the saints

with his squirrel hides drying on the line,

a little slow dance on a cold night,

a two-step and a sway

around.  Lord, my back still burns

from the hands that man

wasted hugging trees —


Not that a one reached back to him

when he lay his body down

for a final baptism

in that ungrateful Ulaneak River.


Now I’m not a born-again kind of woman,

God forgive me,

but I wouldn’t mind

if he’d rise up like a stalagmite

from his damn bed of ice

for even half a minute,

long enough to bless me,


with those hands.


4 thoughts on “A Prayer for Thomas

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