This Is Not A Prayer

It doesn’t go away.
It gets stronger. Bring me back to life.
I am dying in parts.

Blue Rock off of Exit 15,
through the woods in
Harlemville. Water so cold,

I could hardly stay dry.
The summers were crowded,
I could never get myself to jump

off the falls near my house, but I watched
the man whose body was closer to God’s
than Adam kick a cloud of leaves up

when he flew. We never went back there.
I climbed on rooftops and left for Paris
and it doesn’t go away just gets stronger.

This is not a prayer. The mystery of morning
close to ocean, the spine of story opened
to climax, the rot of moss after rain.

Some things are holy as lightning.
A peach in summer, pregnant with
pit and pulp, hanging from branch

is a prayer. What happens to fruit
that never gets picked? Does the ground
learn to eat what it birthed?

Wake up what is dead in me,
early in the morning before birds.
It will not go away. It gets stronger.

About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
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2 Responses to This Is Not A Prayer

  1. Elvina Halli says:

    This is exactly the kind of haunting romantic verse that I could read over and over again. It is heavy and rich. I can taste every word.

    Oh Amy –
    If I could crawl into the cataracts and crevices of your oceanic brain,
    I would collect each word born in its deep-sea, warm-current aquifers,
    I’d welcome it into a blue world
    Like the love-child of a wandering mind.

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