Unanswered

I have prayed for them to return
until prayer became
a room I entered out of habit,
knowing no one would be there.

At first I asked properly,
with the old words,
the dutiful lowering of the head,
the bargain not quite spoken.

Bring them back.
Open a door.
Let one message arrive.
Let one heart turn.

Nothing.

Not thunder.
Not refusal.
Not even the dignity
of being told no.

Only the ceiling,
the fan turning,
the small machinery of the house
going on without revelation.

Outside, the squirrels chase each other
through the branches,
wild with their tiny purposes,
leaping from pine to oak

as if the world were whole,
as if nothing essential
had failed to answer
from beyond it.

They do not know
there is supposed to be a God.
They do not pause
to test the silence.

One clings upside down
to the bark,
tail flicking,
bright-eyed and ridiculous.

Another darts after it,
and for a moment
the trees are full
of innocent commotion.

I stand at the window
with my abandoned petition,
older now than pleading,
tired of asking air

to carry what it will not carry,
tired of heaven’s perfect manners,
its endless tact
in saying nothing.

Perhaps this is faith
after faith has gone:
not belief,
but the shape belief leaves

in a man who keeps looking up
though no one calls his name,
who finally lowers his eyes
and lets the animals be happy.

The evening settles.
The branches empty.
Somewhere my children live
beyond the reach of prayer.

I do not curse God.
I do not praise Him.
I turn from the window
and give up carefully,

as one sets down
a glass already cracked,
not because it is worthless,
but because holding it longer
will only cut the hand.