A Cowardly Prayer

God, I have a cowardly prayer:
Can you show me your love,
But not too much --
Because I don't want to cry
Too hard during the meeting.
Nor laugh too hard
Either.

Oh wait, too late.

What Matters, Then?

What matters is the light streaming in through the kitchen window
The spatula and the spoon standing tall and straight as soldiers,
Barely resting on the mouth of the glass jar that holds them up;

The yellow wall, the bulletin board with its lovely
Inconsequentials -- impressionistic onions, photos of cabinets;
The table, tea station, and prim, expectant jars of unopened jam --
These things matter.

The faintly discernable hum of the power station across the street,
This also matters, along with the once-in-a-while chirps of birds.
The weairness in my body, this heaviness in my legs, the dirt
Under my nails - all of it matters.

The soft voice that whispers "Here I am,"
The quickening of my heart, and the falling,
Tingling answer -- "Hello again, love" --
That wells up inside of me; these are indispensable.

I Am From

I am from the yellow house with brown trim;
The neighbors with 10 pit bulls and more cousins than I could count
Who'd bring us homemade tamales when they had extra

I am from a street lined with mulberry trees;
A creek in which we floated down leaves like boats
And scrambled to the other side of the bridge as they passed below

I am from walks to Dairy Queen, learning to ride my bike in College Hill Park;
Long summer evenings and the never-ending chorus of the cicadas
Who left their shells on the trees to be picked up by brothers who'd scare their younger sisters

I am from water fights and playing in the rain
Streets made of brick and gutters overflowing;
Barefoot we run, twirl, splash, shove, drench

I am from the piano bench where I sit with my mother, refusing to practice
Even though it's only 10 minutes and you'd have been done a long time ago
If you'd just stop crying. . .

I am from home.
And I am still home.