On Conversations

There was a moment I realized prayer
is just a conversation with who you’d rather be.

In this same way, confession builds a narrative 
in what should be a poem. But who

am I to judge? Who am I to hold 
your cheek, that jawbone, in a way

that resembles justice or war, because they follow 
in sequence like schoolchildren

hopping in each other’s snowy footprints.

I am something of an expert on the thing
not said. I excel at the implied expectation, this vast disappointment.

You met me at a strange time
in my life: all relish and old boots; a hat

that never leaves the bookshelf. I wonder
who we’re talking to in the night? Do the stars know

they sit like impossible children in the distance? So quiet 
except for a twinkle here, thermonuclear explosion

there. Emptiness filled with metallic sounds 
and deadly radiation.

But what isn’t, you know?

When I was a boy, I prayed on one knee because 
I always thought myself a knight: armored,

and armed and long and, of course, cold.

Read more from Issue 19.1.