Return to Top of Page
Menu
  • Close
  • About Us
  • Contributors
  • Donate
  • Opportunities
  • Staff
  • Submissions
  • 20 Years
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Search Website
Literary Mama
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
  • Departments
  • Blog
  • Newsletter

Poetry | May 2018

Prayer on the Days of Awe

By Jamie Wendt

For the mother who rises
in darkness to baby sleep noises
sigh tiny cough exhale little grunt

blanketed in the film of her eye,
tucked into her heartbeat.
She cries over capturing her own silent film.

This is a new year of industry.
Tears soaking her palm, she prays hard
to the one God above the sanctuary–

the stained-glass ceiling even says,
all men were created equal,
all men were created in God’s image–

while the little one eats on demand,
her bearing burden timed bowing low now
in thanks in sin.

The cantor is prostrated as a symbol
so everyone else can remain seated.
It is too difficult to memorize

each inch of skin, each prayer page,
each Hebrew letter without vowel,
each wandering night, each door propped open,

while the mother sleepwalks,
her breasts loose, a milked well,
matriarch misplaced outside the tent.

Or has she forgotten herself
somewhere in the red silk, the blankets
of women’s bodies dotting the land?

At home, someone decorated the table with sweet apples,
their housed seed
and perspiring skin ready to be dipped.

1 reply on “Prayer on the Days of Awe”

Marianne Lonsdalesays:
May 22, 2018 at 6:14 am

Beautiful., thank you

Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Share This Page

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Email
  • Copy Link

Jamie Wendt

Learn More

Subscribe to Our Newsletter

Don't miss out on Literary Mama news and updates

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Instagram
  • RSS

© 2023 Literary Mama | Search Site | About Us | Staff | Submissions | Privacy Policy