Abstract
Kyrie Steve Lautermilch Your heart (yardbird) beats like the drumming of a grouse in deep cover, the flush and flurry of bobwhite in brush, you wonder how you ignored its pounding before, at the back of your eyes down the cording of your neck around the bell of your shoulders a warmth is running, rinsing (unhinging) elbow and wrist, undoing hand and foot. Each breath, every impulse to breathe leaves your lungs empty, your throat is like kindling, a sluice where the air sparks like tinder, like grain in a mill chute the words stick to the roof of your mouth, the bony palate above the teeth, your lips part to speak and you hear the syllables break, sounds without meaning, shards and splinters of speech. What kind of prayer is this prayer you can’t say. © 2011 Association for Religion and Intellectual Life
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