Orison
       

Let me give back to God
his jacket, his locket,
his thin slippers,
sunglint, sleetspit, stars.
And here's my cracked,
my sullen, unstrung
guitar, hung like a rabbit
in the butcher's window,
a hole in the belly
where a song should be.
Emptiness only
emptiness can see—
Let this be my prayer.
Does anything belong to me?

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Copyright © 2014 Betsy Sholl All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission