Prayer
She kept a library of sounds, stored in copper jars, preserved against the creeping white noise of age and distance
Those that she loved best gleamed more faintly in the dark, marred by thumb print bruises of green and purple, opened over and over and over
The greenest of all, sat squat, dull but dustless within easiest reach, was just the sound of her name, hushed, low and urgent like a prayer
