Knees

A desire to kneel sometimes pulses through my body . . .
Etty Hillesum

As children, we knelt to pray. Joints, cartilage,
bones, though new, though barely tested,
complained, impatient on linoleum.

Later I uttered my thanks, questions, panic
while sitting, standing, on the run. If I knelt
it was to weed, wash floors, play with my
young. But now I know what Etty means,
a pulse will quicken in me too, unable
to contain, say, the glorious soar of a kite
on blue, or the scar of a long-ago wound,
without commensurate collapse, without
this awkward immobility. Nevertheless

such posture startles, my mind a taunt:
before whom are you growing small, is there
even someone who listens?

Desire pulses, perseveres, finds the holy
mystery in the kneeling (the devil who
appeared to that Desert Father was simply
a grotesquerie who had no knees), prayer un-
furled like a calla lily spathe, its tip
bending downward.