I say a prayer
Over
This plate of rice
And question whether
I am worthy
Of
One
Single
Grain.
I know this is not
What prayer is for.
There is no comfort
In silence.
And the wintering
Of my bones
Is the only answer
To my questions.
Short and hard
Are my days,
The design of February.
Within me, these questions
Feel distant
And contaminatory.
All I can do is feel
The fading warmth
Of this meal
And chew slowly.