A Marquette Artist’s Prayer
Sometimes, I am hanging on by a thread. Just a bad shirt poorly constructed. You know the type, purchased on clearance, made in China, raglan hems fraying from day one. But the material is soft and you want something to fit well. Delicate you pray, but it is weak instead.
I am on that thread, dangling off the shirt seam on the hip, blowing in a fast wind, standing on the break wall, hoping a wave pulls me under just so I do not have to walk against the wind any longer.
The thread could be blue, but that would just be cliché, more than likely the thread is from a gray shirt, or black. I want that thread to be creative so it leads back into the story of my life with ease. With ease. Words falling into place, a stream of silver like a photo affect of waves crashing over rock.
Hands shoved deep in my pockets, I feel grains of sand and the tiny green piece of beach glass. I think of the bowl at home, maroon, driftwood, and single silver earring picked up during a parade, filigree, a labyrinth inside. That bowl, a cup of hands held in prayer, offering items of connection to a god.
The lists chronicle reasons, pros and cons, but none of it makes sense in this town. We dangle, all of us, until we manage to find a niche, a place to cling like orange lichen on the rocks protecting the harbor. Seeking safety and a mending.