I stare, clutch a hymnal, revert finally

to a prayer that the casket will not tip,

spill my mother to the stone floor. Light

from stained glass marks the backs of pews

and I decide to continue to pray, so right away

I ask that the Brussel sprouts in my garden curl

their small heads in that tender spot against

the stalk, safe from cutworms, cabbage worms,

the diamond-backed moth. I pray

for a pen that doesn’t leak, for a closed tent

in the forest of rain. Someone coughs.

Asking for health would be fruitless, I think.

Cells die everyday in the millions, sloughing off

in waves, an invisible trembling spray. Instead

I pray now that the radiator leak in the car

won’t get worse, that I can make the drive

north without a quilt of worry over my shoulders.

I pray for a closed tent in the forest of rain.

For my cats to always lie on sunny paws,

for the red globes of tomato to survive the fall.