Abigail Carroll


Then will I weave
from the ash-blue light

     and the laments
     of David a basket
the spokes of which will hold,

     strong and bone-like,
     a weft of words

soaked in solitude and moon-

     gleam, supple
     as the waning dark,
which bends away on the arc

     of night. Then
     will I twine
my petitions onto the dawn;
     with each tuck
     and fold, Selah
Such is the work of prayer:

     a thrush sews twigs
     and grass, and out

of it the bowl of a nest;
     chafed hands
     braid reeds

and splints into a tabernacle

     of sorts. Here
     will I live—

if You will tenant this house,

     scaffold of birdsong
     and sighs, the grievances

of Job, damp air, the stir of leaves,

     light unraveling the oaks.


Artwork on this page:

Detail of Hands on the ground

10 x 8" oil on clayboard

Irene Hardwicke Olivieri

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