I whisper, Heal us, heal us
hope my words find a prayer,
imagine it rising like mist—
how easy it used to be as a child.
The ritual of bended knees, my head leaning
on tethered palms against my bed, and what
had I said—some small song
to the celestial back then?
That was before the angels
saved me on the dark corridor
of highway, before the acres
of pain, before the table
of contents and knowing the end
of the story, how I wanted to shout,
Why do we have to die?
I remember flying in a thunderstorm—
the other passengers slept or read
while I was desperate to hold
hands with a stranger in the dark
disturbance, barnacle myself
to another to keep us whole.
Click here to read Sarah Dickenson Snyder on the origin of the poem.
Image: “Airplane in thunderstorm” by Dennis Koski, licensed under CC 2.0.
Sarah Dickenson Snyder carves in stone & rides her bike. Travel opens her eyes. She has four poetry collections, The Human Contract (2017), Notes from a Nomad (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2018), With a Polaroid Camera (2019), and Now These Three Remain (nominated for the Massachusetts Book Awards 2023). Poems have been nominated for Best of Net and Pushcart Prizes. Work is in Rattle, Verse Daily, and RHINO. sarahdickensonsnyder.com
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