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When there is nothing left to say,
who do you pray to?
To be delivered,
to be returned to your self?

Inanna on her hook?
Persephone folding winter back?
Demeter demanding her daughter’s return?

Or do you appeal to Mary,
bent at the feet of her suspended son,
or to Magdalene, with her red cloak?
Veronica, whose veil gave us the first image of comfort?

What of Jesus thundering through the market,
or taming devils in the desert?
Buddha, or Allah in kingdoms of other countries?

And what of the disciples?
John, who watched over the garden,
or Peter, who was the first?

Or do you petition the saints themselves?
Beloved Theresa who died young,
or Francis, hands full of animals,
heart full of peace.

Perhaps, you invoke the angels,
Arch and otherwise.
Would Uriel navigate a path for you?
Michael strike down the enemy?
Gabriel offer your resurrection,
and Raphael, the healing that surely must follow.

© 2014 Dora E. McQuaid
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