PRAYING

in illness, mine and yours,
I recall old prayers

it seems I have many to choose from

Tibetan chants of healing
intoned remembering
the Standing Buddha in Bangkok
in all that traffic and smoke
so much peace gift-wrapped at his feet
to be picked up at will

and from memory
the morning prayers at school:
“showers of blessings we need”
sung as mango trees shook off leaves
in the early morning sun

and the verses one learnt
at home from grandmothers
and the screechy audio cassettes
played at the temple next-door
at dawn, praising the goddess
who slaughtered man-beasts

now it is night
and outside our house
the dark earth huddles under its blanket
of smog and sleeps

and an atheist hopes
her prayers will be heard
by the Buddha in Bangkok,
the pensive Jesus in Palakkad
and the goddess
rudely woken up every morning
with songs in her name