By Kashiana Singh
I. Threshold
The prayer does not arrive as thunder.
It drips, slow as honey,
from a wound I thought was sealed.
I kneel not because I’m small,
but because the ground
knows the shape of my body.
There is no asking left,
only the quiet unmaking of names.
God does not speak.
God becomes the silence
I finally stop filling.
II. Dissolution
When the river reaches the ocean
it does not negotiate.
It dissolves.
I unlearn the choreography of control.
The breath—unclenched.
The spine—unlocked.
Here, even the bones remember
their first prayer was surrender.
I open like the mouth of the river,
no longer needing to return.
