Gerry Dincher CC
PRAYER FOR MY SICK DAUGHTER
There are people in the wind like doctors.
That’s what I hope. They are carried here
by the color of their hollow eyes. I tell
myself I will talk to the trees more, ask them
to help my daughter breathe. Why is it so
hard to breathe. Eight months of coughing
is not normal for a 5-year-old. She tells me
she doesn’t want to die the way the sun dies.
Every night, I find myself outside on the
balcony begging the trees. Calling the trees.
Connect your fucking roots. Communicate
with each other. Fill her lungs. Promise me.
A sunlight transfer body to body. We become
the trees hovering in human form. A dance
for my 5-year-old and me. Coughing and
sleeping. Sleeping and coughing. The
machine prescribed: a little dog shaped
nebulizer we can name, pretend to be her
friend strapped like a mask keeping medicine
in. Making it all easier the way hands connect
bodies in the woods. Make me believe it's
only allergies getting better. Watch her ribs.
I skip a rock in the pond just to watch it ripple.
I say it’s a good thing. The wind just blows.
Amanda Adrienne Smith is a poet and actress living in Los Angeles, CA. Her poetry has been featured in Ghost City Review, Right Hand Pointing, and One Sentence Poems. You can find her on social media @amandaadrienne.
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