Belated Novena To Saint Rita Poem by Justyna Bargielska

I really didn't want to die then.
I'd only just learnt to fold
my hands in prayer as though
I held something in them, only just
learnt to negotiate.
With charm. Even standing waist deep
in a sea of flames. I learnt to negotiate
everything, describing it with adjectives
which sound good translated into English.
I folded my hands in prayer
as though I was hiding something more than stone
and I liked this trick.

This image looked like a triptich
but it wouldn't close.
I thought it was a bunch of chrysanthemums
but it was a child's head.
I thought it was a garden parasol
but it was the ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.
If I'd prayed the way you're supposed to,
with my hands in the air, I'd still be alive.

Translation: Maria Jastrzębska