Last night, she mumbled a brief prayer.
Brief because her God hates verbose
prayer. She prayed for abundance.
This morning, she woke up
to the early gossip of sparrows
perching on the neighbor’s clothesline.
Outside, the coral vines are pregnant
with umbels and umbels of salmon-pink
flowers. The tambis fruits now wear bright
red regalia. When night comes, she
is certain the bats will have their fill.
And the jackfruit, because it’s overripe,
bursts open on one side and gives
birth to fleshy and juicy pulps.
The sharp aroma of hierba buena
has found its way through the
wooden jalousies, marrying the burnt
smell of sautéed garlic from the kitchen.
These are the initial answers to
her prayer.
Prayer
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