I read my prayer into the night with my hand on my hip. They call that plucky; good thing, I want to be played. The night paid me no mind, already chock full of cricket song, cricket talk, cricket cry. Which one is it? That’s not for me to decide. Cheep cheep. Me me. Cheep cheep. Me, me? Torque of refrain: tends to circle back around, tends to carry. Either way, I’m pushed. Sometimes there is a difference between word and message, and still, a word is a message. Words stream through, which is to say message received—loud and clear—how water is. Uncertainty grabbed me by a fistful of shirt. Me, me? Swung me around. I’d rather be on speaking terms, on nickname basis (“Certy”? for short), but we’re not. Reach reach. Cheep cheep. I wondered where nights go when they pass, and days, and if it’s to the same place.
*Title of Zeina Hashem Beck’s chapbook and one of her poems. She notes, “how traditional Arabic tales start. It is usally translated as “Once upon a time.” p. 32