Thank you, Lord, for happy hours
that last well past nine; for the nights
when my body falls from my shoulders
like a well-made dress and men’s smiles
boomerang and tilt. Let us not regret
the love made against the bathroom door
or any of my better judgments. Lord, let me
tuck that closeness into my mouth
for safe carrying over long distances. Help us
not feel sorry for the gin we drank
until night yanked morning on
like a tight pair of jeans, or the sickness
that comes later, that bone-deep yellow.
Let me learn to love my body when
all that’s left is my body:
hollowed, emptied, glistening.
Lord, forgive me my least generous thoughts.
Banish the slithering of my unkindnesses—
and if you can’t, rooted as they are
like angry teeth, I pray—God, my God
of small generosities, of short checkout lines and
sun angling through stark white blinds—
obscure them with the rustle of sharp, green pine.
RACHEL ANDOGA is a poet from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her work can or will be found in journals including Third Coast, Yew Journal, Yemassee, Coal Hill Review, and And Love…, published by Jacar Press. Rachel currently writes and teaches in Phoenix, Arizona.