Please God.
The bark-brown folder
in the social worker’s hands
holds an urgent truth.
Have mercy.
I want to live in reverse:
before the needle,
before savage biology.
My hands grip the arms
of the chair, the prayer
tickers through my mind.
This crapshoot life!
God leans into the ring
I blow on the dice
Baby needs a mother.
In a moment I’ll know.
I’ll walk out, free—
I’ll see the cloudless cobalt sky,
and the urgent prayer receding
across it, like jet contrails
just vapor.
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