There is no tentative considering
of pain. When it inflicts a suffering
calling a Name. The only one to call
when there is certainty, as in a squall,
no wind or rain or tempest or typhoon
in life cannot be calmed whene’er we fall
on bended knees or hold each other’s heart.
The ear inside it hears and, having heard,
will mobilize the mouth and, next to it,
the hands, the many hands and fingers, too,
to march like it were Her command and, marching,
waits. And lets it as She wished it done.
Curiosity is well excused for what
surprises and since what was sought is not
fodder for talk but that which may appease
because a storm on earth cannot be equal
to a storm at heaven’s gate, pounding,
pounding hard, relentless, never ceasing
till the sound is heard, the grace of healing
graced. Why, even priests in privacy and
conference set their concerns aside to pause
and, having paused, proceeded to obey
their certitude and continued. Prayed.
Embracing in all likelihood the throng
of supplications for a supplicant
herself, a paragon of prayerful
conviction. If it be Your will, O Lord,
pain is gain. Thank You for the thousandfold.
Abraham de la Torre