Something Must Be Done

A Poem

She puts her money in the slot, takes three candles, stands there, ambivalent as a prayer. Lighting them she looks at someone, only she can see. Places these unreliable flickers in the golden light of those who arrived earlier, long gone. She is beginning to believe she is not alone, daring to say something, only she can hear. Crossing herself, she leaves her light and takes it with her.

Next to her, I add my badly spellt prayers to the impossible collection. I imagine them rising like dust motes in some unseen light, hauled heavenward, the way a flower cannot resist a sun. I imagine you, over there, where the violence has resumed or silent in the corner of the room, as he returns home. I imagine you, lying awake, asking how it came to this, numbering your days. I see mine rising in the light with yours, climbing up and over the face of the earth, some rocket-fuelled by faith, some not, falling back down, falling on me, looking at me, asking why I bother, while I reorganise the letters, assembling a better spell.

I remind myself that something must be done and today this is being done. You who have died, let me hold you for a moment, In this light, You who have been told the worst news, And you, weeping for someone you love. You who I know so well and cannot fathom, Come close, into this light. You, my enemy and opponent, Is this how I love you, Letting this light become my better self, Letting my prayer pray itself, Letting love repair me.

Under this gawdy, gold awning, a couple take a selfie, while, outside, the traffic genuflects on Fifth Avenue. Arching above us, the huge dome boasts about how great is the greatness and out of reach the unreachable. Everyone has their reasons, I reason, for pulling up at these lights. Life is Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Only Stop Tells Go To Wait.

When something must be done, find one of these places. Where the unspoken and unwritten rise beyond spelling into light and hope. Sit in the quiet. Argue with god. Then be quiet, both of you. Start when you don’t know what to say. Ask that some of your broken prayers will hitch a lift, on some of those others, all the way to Heaven. Whether or not it exists, which, for the purposes of this poem, it does. Remember that prayer is not functional but another way of being which functions inside all of us. Put your money in the slot. Defy the directions of history. Thy will be done.