The Night I Forgot How to Pray

I licked my palms to know what the road felt 
like—how the slick-wet slob of Earth— 
we floated through—managed to hold us.
I remember someone in the back asking me 
about Christianity and all I could 
think about was where I put 
my rosary—how I needed it 

to know water beading down vision, 
the way sweat performs for your attention,
asking you to recognize yourself in the slow 
rolling. Sometimes I can feel it. The Mother, 
I mean, and Jesus—
he let us lick every crumb of communion, 
he was a mother, too.

I think
a prayer is here somewhere.