i went to church and ran out of time

a poem

We were a pattern, we were always a pattern—
                      of needing to escape          grief,           needing to keep 
our options          open,           needing fate to intervene. 

              You told me prayer is whatever is done      on your knees. 
Sometimes in filth,           sometimes resignation,            almost 
                   always in hunger                    or boredom 
                                            or desperation. 

                      When I prayed,      it was mostly for us. 
But it didn’t feel holy,            and I often wondered if it was    just 
                      another thing I couldn’t get right.

If God thought I was too performative, 
                      too cagey,                  too vague, 
                                            too greedy. 
If my melodrama left    little          to be desired. 
                     
Maybe he took my words personally—
                      I was just desperate for      something        greater 
than hope,                     and who better to turn to 
                           than   God    himself?          

                      It’s what people do, that’s what you said.
They recite their          Hail Marys       and         Our Fathers—
                      though I wonder if it should be 
                                       the other          way     around?

    I never did learn the difference—
                             I bet God didn’t like that. 

I always moved as if I had somewhere          better   to be.
                             I bet you didn’t like that either.           

After two weeks, I gave up       prayer. 
                  There’s no holy alibi for    bad patterns—
and anyway,         I could never get 
                                                   the cadence       right.