by Isabel Chenot

Sometimes the light is gathered, largely,
and I seem to see
my way to walk on water.

Sometimes the wind scatters light across
lake wrinkles, tosses
clarity to Peter’s

loss of Christ. Sometimes light is loose sand,
stippling vision
on the breaking surfaces

through which I sink. But light can walk
longer on a hillock
of wave than shaking matter.

The water is like Adam’s rib
while he slept. His new lung threw
it upward when he breathed in;

then it slipped
down, until breath grew
next in his lung.

The water is like my prayer.
Desires swell
to love, and tumble

defeated, broken. So hold me where
love is drawn out full,
when my prayers stumble.