Sometimes, the old Catholic in me

rears its pious head, telling me

that prayer looks like aching knees

and the scrubbing of my shame,

until the grime of my very aliveness

soon after builds again—

but that gentler voice within

blows this smoke away

with but a whisper,

asking me how I want to pray today,

and what part of my body would like to do the praying?

is it my feet,

dancing in the grass,

is it my hands,

tracing an oak?