On Hearing There May Be a Grandchild

I begin to pray for the world. Believe me
it’s involuntary—a lamp chain’s pulled,
my bulb filament glows…. 

                                              Don’t think
I’ve prayed since I was that feverish
kid sweat-soaking the bed and afraid
I’d drain away. That night

                                             I prayed 
for myself, to a giant in his white steam-
bath robe and that cake-shaped hat. 
The fever did break,

                                   and I spun it 
my plea had been answered, but less than
half believed. My Caucasian deity
vaporized through the years,

                                                diffused
into the wide dark just the far
side of all the fine slits carved
in my books—

                          there were the stars
and the worlds they warmed, the cheetah
teeth in gazelle, and yes, the grenade
launcher…and the miracle 

                                             no mind    
made a molecule of trust, of the let-down
of a breast’s milk, of belief
itself. 

           And now I’ve lived long enough
on this majestic skim operation, 
on the endless breakdown slough,
to get the call—


                           I hear a brave smile
in my son’s voice, my tear ducts swell,
and the prayer’s gone live, everywhere
all at once, on past the end of my breaths. 

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