My Parents Pray

At odd hours my parents pray.
Every day
they are ready
to pray, ready
to turn down the burners,
mute the tv, place bookmark
or punctuate a conversation.
Ready for a phone call,
an unexpected visitor
bearing bad news. Pray,
pray for them, me, him, her.
Pray.

I have seen their work firsthand,
laws of the universe annulled
for two petitioners.

Sometimes he prays in a song,
sometimes while thinking out loud,
once I heard him praying in the shower.

She prays in her room in the early morning
a prayer of pain, of longing,
or in her car, eyes open,
a quick God help them
for a noisy passing ambulance,
a prayer I've inherited
still not knowing who I am praying to.

Many times I have heard
the rising and falling of their prayers
filling the empty spaces of room and hall,
like a storm siren,
like a sonic piston,
a wailing inflection
pumping away prayer after prayer.

Theirs is a song without rhyme,
lyric-heavy with Jesus and Oh,
a mourning for the hurting,
the only hope for a neighbor, family member,
friend, friend of a friend, friend of a friend
of a family member.

Each time they make their stations,
get into praying position,
turn their eyes inside and pray,
wrinkle their brows and pray,
bend their necks and pray,
sometimes asking, sometimes demanding.

At times the prayed-for is present,
and they go to work
with their hands,
sometimes wet with olive oil,
always tense,
wanting to heal so badly
that they grip the forehead with force,
palming the brow.

It feels good on a headache
or a wasp sting,
sometimes it takes the pain away.