The Prayers of Bullets
After Annelyse Gelman
Forgive us our velocity, the way
we can only love inside out—
our piety has always been clumsy.
But we still remember creation—
The day you tore us from the sky,
and we marveled at the thunder
you had placed in our throats.
This was how we knew
that you would always hear us.
We had named you gods
long before you sculpted us from lightning,
before you whittled our bodies more perfect shapes—
you gave us direction. Not purpose.
But we still shout your names with our tongues of thunder
and wonder why you don’t hear us;
should we scream louder?
We do not understand your hearts,
the renewal of your breath, how
your bodies are always rebirthing themselves.
We could not imagine
the perfect mechanics of your anatomy—
we wanted to unravel its secrets,
to discover you through dissection.
Forgive us our curiosity.
We were frightened of your unpredictability,
the way your fists unmake and recreate
themselves has no pattern—
we thought we could unearth
some arithmetic that guides you,
thought that we could know
the nuance of your touch.
Forgive us our vanity.
We envy you your stability, the permanence
with which you hold onto that you love.
You have known the mercy of time
for all of your lives—you seem so eternal,
standing so slow, yet never still.
Forgive us our envy.
We cannot comprehend your silence—
you are so quiet. Your voices know
nothing of thunder—
they are so foreign, so unfamiliar.
You have the luxury of fading peacefully—
we have never known this privilege;
it takes a god to die silently
we always die screaming.
We’re screaming for you;
Human, are you listening?
Can you hear us?
Or do our prayers fall on deaf ears?
Damn us, if you want.
You already did it once,
when you tore us from sky;
it is a curse, to be descended from lightning,
unable to touch without destruction,
doomed to love so scientific.
Forgive us.
We wanted to know you biblically.
We settled for surgically.