i know: i never
drink enough water; prefer
to pray on my knees only when everyone else
is standing; when to hide and
when to dance my litanies
among the lilacs in the field

i am trying to change: how i get
angry when little hands tap my forehead
as i’m drifting off to sleep (their world
is so alive with stories that must be told);
the way my own fingers find
all manner of scabs on the skin on the heart,
picking picking

i would like to understand: why her voice
moves through me, marks time like sand
in an hourglass; what i will do when the last
grain falls.