I do not pray to the living.
When I pray, I close my eyes.
In the dark, behind the veins of my lids,
I see stars wheeling bright like jewels
across oblivion
and in the void I feel the dead,
soft like strands of hair
brushing across my cheek.

In life you were gruff when you spoke,
though my memories of you
are heavy with the things that were never said.
As a child I sat in quiet fascination
while the long stem of ash on your cigarette
fluttered to the can below your chair,
joining the mountain of cinders in rusty tin.
The smell of the smoke still lingers,
the phlegmy cough rings in my ears.
I can still see the maze of tubes
springing like weeds
from your mouth, your chest, your arms
and the green digital glow of a jagged line
on a digital screen,
its peaks and valleys sharp like knives,
speaking to me of life and death.

But in my prayers
your voice is soft like your hands
as they cradled me in childhood,
your eyes glassy and bright,
radiant like the stars.