WALKING PRAYERS

by Martyna C. Miller


Rodin’s severed hands — halls of limbless Parian marble.
I wondered: can a broken thing be beautiful?

The night without its flashlight
the ground had dissolved,

the dark sky punctured portholes to discreet heaven.
But I think spirituality is a little closer. 

In a walking prayer
the man in tar black white choker urges,

Deny yourself
I have a hundred times, and it left me lame.

The boy carrying a cross and a capri sun
looks straight at the sun.

I don’t feel any closer to heaven except when
I follow this roadmap back home —

Birthmarks and freckles, celestial aftermaths.

I once said to a coworker I could only breathe when I run.

I haven’t touched a rosary —
a rose in a while. 

As my thumb slides down each bead,
slicing the pad open.

The body is remarkable.
I’ve watched skin, separated by force, come back together.

There is a hope bigger than this world
that it’ll work, that it should work cause I’ve been taught to pray this way as an obedient beginner.

If every prayer repeats
then a field of poppies is a prayer
paced
one after the other,
and I won’t have to say a word.


* * * * *

Martyna C. Miller, a native of Brooklyn, NY, graduated from Brooklyn College with degrees in Creative Writing and Linguistics. Her work has appeared in college-run publications such as The Junction Magazine and Stuck In The Library. In addition to writing poetry, she is currently working on her debut dystopian surrealist novel. When not writing, she can often be found maintaining her fish tanks.