wild heart

I squeeze a prayer
from my rusted heart
for you to get well.
The sawing of your breathing
makes me angry.
I know God heard,
but still you suffer.
You kick against me
when I hold you close,
and then I’m mad at you, too.
I forget to remind myself —
things are better in the morning.
But for now I cry
angry tears.

When I go back to sleep
I dream
of a child attacked
by panthers — his life
only spared when a bear
scares them away.
And I watch the whole thing–
praying.
There are holes in the child’s face
for his little sister to ask what happened.

And all my praying
and all my crying
and pleading
didn’t stop that.

But things will be
a little
better in the morning.

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