A Prayer for Her Healing
All the accompanying angels appeared for her because it takes a squad
a platoon of angels, a division,
moroccan prayer beads pinned to the surgery bed,
and the general
to make a complete healing.
Later in the night when everyone sleeps
they parachute in from the east and west,
angels ascending, descending
they wander in from the coasts.
Some have satchels slung over their shoulders filled with amulets
others are entirely dreams.
All the energies converge for her
who lies silent in the dark with her mantra.
It was not:
help me help me help me help me,
But it could have been.
Or it could have been another prayer for healing,
a specially created voice howling in the square
the words suspended between thought and deed,
not wishes but why not,
why not a wish,
with her hands clutched to her chest
right hand buried in the left.
Why not a wish or a prayer or a whisper,
she sneaks away for a chat with God.
Come on God, take a card
just this once
and God said
Nachman ben Tzvi