A Prayer for Mother-Rage

A Prayer for Mother-Rage

Righteous One,
I refuse to pray
for peace and consolation.
I refuse to fold my hands --
fold my fitted sheets
fold them up neat
just so --
Like a Precious-Moments Mother,
fragile pastels
and small.

May I not even whisper
sweet prayers for comfort now.
(There is no comfort to be had
near the gaping hole left
by a child
by an empty desk
by an empty pink bed.)
No.

Instead
let us pray
not with hands folded,
but clenched fists,
hands up
(Don’t shoot.)

Let us pray as a lioness roars
crouching hellbent
between death
and her cubs.

Let us pray
for rage;
Pray every drop of it
be drained
dry from scared white boys
and their tail-tucked fathers.
And may it be transfused
into the branching veins
of all mothers rising --
igniting a locked-up maternal communion.

May it overturn laws and tables,
May it smash every idol and gun,
May it beat our swords into plowshares and chalkboards
chalkboards that erase
every wall
that would keep mothers kept --
keep us pregnant and heavy laden
with privilege’s child.

So mothers-in-rage,
Let us pray,
(all the while marching):
Lord have mercy
on our children.
Christ have mercy
on our nation.
Lord have mercy on us.
Amen.

a. kreisle