Prayer
By Jennifer Budenski

I watch him watching his hands
as if he doesn’t believe his fingers
will do what he wants them to do—
today, line up pebbles on a fat, wet stick—
unless he’s looking. I watch him

like this, as ritual, as meditation
because his play is ceremony;
it is transcendent. Still,
there will be a moment
when I remember myself,

turn to talk to the mother
sitting next to me, or the one
opening a box of crackers.
As I finish my sentence,
my curious son will fall

over the edge, float to the rocky bottom,
fill his lungs with water.
There will be nothing to do
but follow, capture his frantic hands,
push him up, out of the water

into the hands of other mothers and pray.
Dear God, forgive me for this asking:
let him learn to be afraid of edges.