I never believed in magic, silly card tricks or pulling rabbits from hats, although as a kid
I did see a woman get sawed in half by chemo and radiation and the burrowing sores within her.
No list for Santa nor whispered pleas to saints, I scoffed at voodoo incantations that could
transform mere syllables murmured by a shaman or priest into mystic power.
What deity hears pleas from only a chosen flock? Why is
pride in man such a sin, but the demand for docile worship acceptable?
These questions haunted me from the cradle, and drowned wise
and simple faith in a riptide of dueling tomes and bibles.
But if the proper supplication would let your eyes close just once without clenching, grant
you a single hour of placid repose or a breath that was not shallow or strained,
if the proper sacrifice sent in the right direction would lessen by even an instant
the constant sear of blessed poison dripping in your veins to burn away unholy pain,
I’d fall weeping upon my knees in grateful surrender, and not rise again until vowing to wear
the hairshirt or yarmulke or hijab or ash, and scream Your Name daily, bent over in prayer.