A Hymn About the Shape of Missing

a prayer cracks in my throat—shattering

to gravel. syllables grinding between

the cobblestones of my teeth. this body,

a hollowed chapel from the end

of the river. my voice, a rock

skipped over water, each ripple

a small defeat. the shore stays

thirsty. the poem starts like this:

what’s left when a wound dries?

scabs? no—only a hymn

about the shape of missing. ink

clots. blots the page like a fist

squeezing a wrist. see how

it stains? a confession

without words. once, a boy

dissolved into smoke. i swear—

the day his shadow grew too heavy.

i keep his laugh in a jam jar

tucked beneath the bed. some nights

it rattles like a hymn sung backward.

some nights, i still find pieces

of him in my coffee grounds.

my mind’s a cemetery where ghosts

brawl. gravestones are crosses

made from splintered answers.

tell me—how wide is your regret?

does God stitch scars

with the same thread

that sews shut eyelids? this poem,

a carcass: spine cracked

from carrying too many ghosts,

ribs stitched with line breaks

that sag like clotheslines

in august. every stanza—

a scalpel splitting skin

to count the rings inside

the wound. i used to call

the rain holy. it fell hard,

punctuating dirt with commas

as if the earth needed

to catch its breath. now

the rain’s a liar—drowning

the yard. smudging the ink

of my apologies into something

that looks like mercy.

a poem is just a bruise

humming an old hymn.

a shattered mirror

glued with spit. it shows

every face but the one

i need. i write anyway.

because the silence eats

my bones if i don’t.

because the scab

keeps splitting. because

the boy’s jar

is almost empty.

Wash-Anigboro Harry is a lawyer. His poems have been published in Poetry Song Ota and The Shallow Tales Review.