Sent...letters waiting for God

Every other wish is filtered through the blind,
we are left hoping- an emotion which leaves
our hands in constant prayer, that maybe our
turn is next; so my grandma slowing unclenches
her palm when I say, enough now- I am here.
It’s like writing a poem in the dark, her words
are scripted in my bloodstream.

I jot the messages down and silently re-draft my answers,
because it is not fair and none of this is her fault.
But God might not intercept our letter, so we wait-
and it’s been three weeks of medicating, her light
caught in the wingspan of the magpies, flashes of
black and white.

I wake up with your prayers on the tip of my tongue,
and the constant fear that maybe I can’t make things better.
That our love is waiting; half shadowed- our breath exhaled
onto note book pages. Her mouth transforming into a moth-
aiming for the garden, we follow the glow of the light;
our gleaming letters demanding that love is enough.