By Kimberly Olivera Lainez

I am slowly becoming
the steady rhythms of the week.
I look out the window
I pour the coffee
I sigh
I try to stay awake
I am tired.
The day blends into hours
they melt into each other
golden proof that I’m doing something here.
What am I doing here?
Sunny and sinister
the August day mocks me.
I dream of you
warm inside my womb,
alive.
Grief swims in the pit of my stomach
surprising me with its company
every time I think I’m fine.
Can I praise you in this wilderness
where bone and ash stretch for miles?
I know your wounds
and you know mine.
Son of suffering, draw me near
crucified Lamb, hold me here.
Replenish this desolate land
let green life sprout,
resurrect this broken heart.
Every morning is a new mercy,
let me try again.
I wake
I cry
I rise
I bow
I pray
I call out Your name.
You alone, You alone
give meaning to the rhythms.