The Prayer
Midwinter, and I tuck my daughter in.
It’s been dark for hours. She asks for a prayer.
I recite the only one I know, one I read in a book
In the months before she was born.
Dear Lord,
I say, and she says it with me.
It seems the least I can do:
Give her something to believe in.
Outside the window, the moon is a tossed quarter.
Eva asks for water, for a kiss. Finally, a blanket.
By morning, she will have kicked it to the floor.
By morning, she will have kicked it to the floor.