Prayer with Strawberry Gelatin
My sister is sick.
The culprit — shapeless, anonymous.
Medical science works best with a villain:
name the devil
to learn whether to cut loose a tumor, switch out
a liver, break into heart after heart.
Will it help her to know
she dodged a knife
in the womb? Has she already heard?
In the memory of that day,
whether the hospital feeds our mother Jell-O.
Mom is alive.
I am four. I associate strawberry gelatin with miracles,
and the baby is okay. My sister’s storm
needs a name, Lord. She points to her temples
where her torrents are born.
Once, in Galilee, spit and a pair of hands
gave sight to a blind man,
but it took two tries.
The first time, the people looked like trees.
So open your mouth
and get her story right.
Give over and over, your hands.about the author