Our toddler slices the air
with a bandaged finger,
her makeshift cross
more complete
by her young, scratched skin,
a reminder of all our “boo“boo’s”
piling up in the flesh
till we cry out
our alphabet beginnings,
Abba gurgling in the throat
we hold up weekly
for the bread and winethat settles nightly
in our wounded souls,
cradles to sleep those childish
doubts now grown“up
in our bodies,
so immature and mortal
and hungry for the calm
clean milk of continuous
childlike prayer.
Marjorie Maddox
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