We Pray on Our Knees to Make Our Desperation More Literal, Painful, and Sad

By Christian Hanz Lozada

Like a dancer never learning the number,

I side eye the parishioners around me

for times to kneel, to sit, to stand. My

movements are always a second off.

The judges will see this and give me

notes later. They will point out how

when I stood, I would rock side to side

like I had to pee or go somewhere.

They will say when I sat, I spent it

scanning the room rather than in praise

or following along in the book like I was

looking for some other form of salvation.

They will point out that my kneeling legs

never stopped working, how they would

collapse and rest my butt on the bench edge

or shoot up straight from joint to hip

when I noticed the hot person in one pew

up and down the way. They will question

my level of devotion and ask how many times

I get down on my knees to commune with God.

I will ask: in a day or in a lifetime? The numbers

are not that far apart because I’m still learning

how that number goes: when does the beat drop

and I get to share my desperation?

Where is the bridge where I drown it?

How do my knees open God’s ears?

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Christian Hanz Lozada aspires to be like a cat, a creature that doesn’t care about the subtleties of others and who will, given time and circumstance, eat their owner. He wrote the poetry collection He’s a Color, Until He’s Not. His Pushcart Prize nominated poetry has appeared in journals from five continents and counting. Christian has featured at the Autry Museum and Beyond Baroque. He lives in San Pedro, CA and uses his MFA to teach his neighbors and their kids at Los Angeles Harbor College.