Prayer by Dale Cottingham
From the church stoop, in dusky light,
surrounded by motionless, sweltering air,
I hear the congregation singing,
in their dozens, alkaline voices rising,
falling, crescendoing,
calming like waves, making
of individuals this unison,
a verve that raises them to tip-toes,
giving themselves to a collective purity
of volition, a story of faith,
a harmony that does not move or sway
by the slightest fraction,
August’s windless air hovering
over the yard’s brown grass,
and simmering parked cars—
their confluence still whelming,
resonating in me, in them,
evincing a truth I realize
more deeply each gleaming moment:
we don’t get what we want, unless
we want longing--
more purely ours
than any other humanity.
Let me be one with this unison
for a moment on this shaded stoop
in burning heat, in this green
oasis of naming--
take every line I’ve saved
from all my ineffable days,
let me surrender mere knowing.
