Ruth Foley

Prayer for the Abandoned

I tell myself there are no accidents,
that every moment there is something driving
us towards another moment we are blind
to at the time. But I don't really know.
And whether that's a comfort or a test
I can't decide. I have learned to hold
onto uncertainties like fragile birds,
their wings rustling in my palms, their voices
muffled almost to nothing. What I want
is simple: take it back. Roll back the road
until it is no longer slick. Un-smash
the car she crumbled in. Return my sister.

Forgive me, God. I didn't know I held
so much resentment. As for my sister,
I guess at what I think of her. She tests
my memory. What I've kept is so mashed
up I can't tell what is what. I don't know
anything, not which part of the road
took her, not if the snow had made her blind,
not if she knew or prayed to you or wanted
to and couldn't. One moment she was driving
then she wasn't. If you gave her voice,
reclaimed her an instant past the accident,
I should be grateful. I am not. A bird,

she lifted, now unbroken, from the road.
That's what I should believe? She was a bird?
And that's redemption? All I've ever known
from that day on is chance, an accident
of timing. I want the timers smashed.
And if you could at least have left her voice,
an echo of her face, I could attest
to something like redemption, a driving
reckoning. Instead, I have no sister,
and no reason. No matter how I want
to, Lord, I cannot find a way to hold
her now. I was too young. I am too blind.

And I cannot take wing like all the voiceless
earth-bound creatures that came before me, blind
and dumb, about as agile as a smashed
college kid who drank more than she could hold.
I wait to happen, like an accident.
I've never learned to ask for what I want,
or think that I deserved it. That she knew,
that much she might have taught me, my sister.
Desire was as natural as birds
or breath, a fundamental, innate drive.
Did you have them sing to her, God, on that road?
Did you release them as some sort of test?

As if contentment comes in lack of want,
I lie, pretend there aren't any tests,
pretend I don't wait for an accident
to find me when I'm on that stretch of road,
pretend I've gotten over it. I hold
that part the closest, my injuries driven
against my body, even though it's smashed
and useless, beyond help—it is my bird.
And I lose everything, risk going blind—
And I—I call other women sister.
Decided, I allow myself a voice.
This skim of ice I walk pretends to know.

I'm cold this Sunday, Lord. Beside the drive,
a phoebe looked for water, not knowing
the ground's been dry for years. It won't hold
water anymore, even frozen. My voice
frightened her away. She flew down the road,
found a tree, huddled. Perhaps like sisters,
water comes and goes by accident
in winter—sudden thaw. I cracked the blinds
to watch her search. Each patch of lawn tested
solid, frozen. She pecked and pecked, my bird.
A comfort to have such a simple want,
such ignorance of what is easily smashed.

By afternoon, her tracks were filled. The cistern
was covered, the grayed dirty drifts, the smashed-
up snow bank chunks along the unplowed road.
Everything is new and cold. No one wants
to shovel in this wind. Even my voice
has frozen. Maybe I'll find it in a bird
tomorrow. Tell me what the future holds,
Lord, if not more of this. Another test?
Another thing to lose? The things I know
shrinking into nothing? I might be blind
for all the good it does. I might be driven.
I might be the result of accident.

I have no control. Instead, I'm a bird
drawn to inevitable accident,
towards an almost undetected voice,
a specter. The promise of April drives
me through winter. No matter how I want
to steer, I can't. I careen around blind
corners, hug the precipice, hog the road.
I think I can hear her, whispering no.
I think I'll hear her up until I smash
the barrier and fall. I'm a crash test
dummy, bent from the force of a sister.
My body folds; something inside me holds

the consequences of each hit—the blindness,
the scars, the indecisions. I can hold
it all, convince myself it's what I want
or everything I need. Except a sister.
Tell me more about the flight, the drive,
of how the fledglings feel it's time to test
themselves against the air. Speak up—your voice
is fading still. What happens if they smash?
What omnipotent grace feeds accident?
What purpose do I serve? What do I know?
You take the wheel, then. Flip the world the bird.
You chose the destination. Choose the road.

Adjust the rear-view mirror, the seat. Test
the brakes again before we hit the road.
I never do the things I should. The drive
is covered with droppings, the windshield, birds
and berries littering the snow. Oh, sister.
It's getting worse, it's getting dark. I know
the moon will be speaking soon, and what she wants
is terrifying, God—an accident,
a life. I hope you have the power to hold
the fragments you've created once we smash.
I've closed my eyes. Or else I'm going blind.
If you would only speak I'd track your voice,

I'd learn how to believe again. I'd know—
a shadow and a long-lost wisp of voice
might find me then. Hallelujiah, sister!
If I could make myself become a blind
disciple, if being darkened by birds
brings her near, take my eyes. Or let me smash
myself against the rocks. Give me the drive
to take my body to her. Make me whole
by rending. Leave me broken on the road.
The world will chalk it up to accident.
Devise a wretched unbeliever's test.
I'll pass it if you'll tell me what you want.

But this is what I think, Lord: I smash
myself so I can learn the fullness of want,
the limits of my faith. Empty as a bird,
I mark off narrow boundaries to test
my demons out or take them in, go blind
amidst the awe of heaven's accident.
And even then, I have no hope, no sister.
Senseless, I steer myself into the road's
horizon. Sometimes I think we hear a voice,
a calling. Faith, once slipped, could not take hold
again. You gave up on me, Lord. I know.
You are beyond my reach. Yet I'm still driving.

A hymn, an accident, and unnamed drive,
a chosen blindness the abandoned know—
it is a test. It's all I have to hold,
this flighless, foundling bird, this frozen voice.
The things I love lie broken on the road.
What's left? Some ash. A fragment of a sister.