J A N  L E E  A N D E

Learning How to Pray

from Instructions for Walking on Water

When I die, I will practice the humble submission

of folded hands and lowered head,

swarming forward in that endless line of familiars,

inching on my knees toward the gates.

No doubt I will be sent away to school,

a beginning course in patience or compassion,

a lower level internship that won't lead

to feathery wings or a gold nimbus.

I wonder if I will be held to the bodhisattva vow

I made only half awake - promising

to come back to this sad planet, again and again,

until the last sentient being is free?

I will wish I had prayed more, not those long winded

babblings and desperate pleas for things

I thought I needed, but small prayers,

their crumpled faces teary eyed, bleating thank you.

I will unravel the bone mala and wooden rosary

to pray the old beads of adoration,

roll the smoooth round words of love

over and over between my fingers and thumb.

Maybe as I float up out of this body it will become clear

- the name of that guardian angel at my shoulder,

the smell of earth like frankincense and myrrh,

all creaturese tumbling under the canopy of clouds.

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