I Don’t Know What to Pray
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

A house near All Hallows Church has Tibetan prayer flags
strung from a maple to the side of the front porch. The wind

examines them carefully, turning each one over, asking
questions now and again, and after awhile,

the questions begin to fall, like whirlybirds. A few fall within
reach, and I catch them as they do, and examine them carefully,

turning each one over, and wonder if any of the seeds share the same questions,
since many of them fall while kissing. And what of my own questions?

Have my eyes ever blazed? When was the last time
I ladled soup for someone? Have I ever had to say to myself:

“Don’t move.” When was the last time I looked through a kaleidoscope?
Is kindness ever wrong? And what would happen (if anything)

if I sat beneath a banyan tree? I pause, fireflies rising in the graveyard
next to the church, and then, I fling the seeds back into the air,

and watch them spin in the late evening sky, wondering
if the prayers will be answered, even though I myself, don’t know what to pray.