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Waking on Palm Sunday
Katie Manning (bio)

All prayers escape me. Angles creep among
us, acutely. I’m aware of forms across
the bed, and my thoughts run toward holy taints
who’ve gone before. Their shadowed figures blur
with angles now—I hope these specters plead
my face to God. I’ve gotten out of head,
distracted—spilled a glass of ilk—I shed
a leer and vow: I’ll put my words on straight
and start again. All prayers escape me. Thoughts
are falling, scraping knees on rocks. They skip
right through the city gate, toward the sun-
rise naked—the word made flesh made word
again. Inside my open palms a prayer
appears: Dear God, it says, and then, Amen.

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