Nadine Ellsworth-Moran

33 Knots

of an Orthodox prayer

bracelet. Each knot

an intricate pattern,

crosses woven to vex

the devil who can’t undo them.

The wool indents a pilgrimage

on my skin. I move my fingers

over 33 prayers waiting

for tongue and mouth

to form an utterance.

I bow my head, feel the sinew

beneath my shoulder blades

pull bowtight, ready for release.

There are 33 bones interlocking

in the spine, strung together

like a pearl necklace.

Such fine, tight knots

I count these too—

these hard scar places

that do not want to yield.

I pray the radiating spinefire

that burns electric

along nerves, raw—

until 33 prayers flood forth,

fibers, blood, being, break apart.

Shifting. Riven.

Mercy is not gentle.

Moses’ Mother Builds an Ark

i.

She waited as long as she could to release

her infant son into the waters. An edict

unavoidable, but still a way is found—

she fashions him a tevah—an ark of rushes,

no rudder or sails or oars to row,

a directionless vessel holding her breath

and blood, an indifferent river receiving

her prayer for the waters to be kind

as they carry him away.

ii.

We pick our way down a dry hillside,

climb over rocks to descend

into the cove, sink our feet into unnamed

sands, find ourselves before the sea.

I leave the others on the beach, wade

into the water’s welcome of toes and knees

and thighs, let it rise and cover my head

before I breach the surface to float.

iii.

O Mother, who created my tevah, who fashioned

me in flesh and set me in these waters. I am without

sails or rudder or oars to row. I am filled with current

and wave, the wind drives me this way and that— How

will you find me? Whose hands will reach in

to draw me out, give me new life on another shore?

Jeremiah Gets a Pep Talk

So, Jeremiah, if you’re worn out in this footrace with men, what makes you think you can

race against horses?

~ Jeremiah 12:5 (The Message) ~

It passed over the sill

and hovered mid-air,

ribs expanding and collapsing

in great striving breaths

before the fall. Your greatness,

now dashed across imitation

hardwood floors.

Each letter flung

into its respective corner,

“g” here “s” there—

how unsettling to be tasked

with sweeping up the remains of greatness.

We’ll need a dust pan and some glue.

The blue Formica table winks silver

in the afternoon sun as we arrange

the pieces, hunch over bits of your greatness

and assess the damage—

each fragment worn smooth,

worn down, exhausted of its meaning.

The painstaking resuscitation

begins where there is no farther

plain or valley, no wind left to carry,

where greatness must die its meager death

or learn to breathe through the thick, red dust

kicked up by wild horses

racing headlong over fields.

Nadine Ellsworth-Moran serves in ministry in Georgia. She is fascinated by the stories unfolding around her and seeks to bring everyone into conversation at a common table. Her work has appeared in Emrys, WildWord, Thimble, Pensive, and Kakalak, among others.  She lives with her husband and four unrepentant cats.