A lone woman wades through sea green laps of city-grade fountain water under the specter of the Angel’s eye. At noon she folds prayer rugs of teal, sapphire, and gold in neat stacks; hangs rosary beads onto a wooden board bearing crooked nails. Seeks Jesus’s son through spoken word and wild serpents, while tongue-tied tweets offer stocks and prayers in the wake of empty shells.
Past Mid-town on the MTA foolish men pump their fists in Manhattan mahogany boardrooms, where corporate governance is choked out by the thick haze of tightly rolled Maduros at Market’s close. Blind reverence to the street on their hands and skinned knees.
Mea Culpas swell and sweep across the Atlantic, the Ganges and the Pacific: We wring our hands and brace for a lengthy penance. For a few bucks and a snuff, she’ll shuffle prayer cards of the lesser-known Saints, offer forgiveness, and give a side-eyed blessing to-go.
She spoke of an exodus of shadows, emptying from the heart of the trading pit. Still hearing the shouts and dreaming of the wash of hands—the hands summoning the wishes of others against the crush of time.
Chirping sparrows dip in and out of the brownstone boughs, but the yellow-eyed Grackle suffers no fools and rips their morning-song-amnesia with the screech of a rusted gate.
Photo by Matthias Oberholzer on Unsplash
Carolyn McAuliffe
Carolyn McAuliffe resides in Southern California with her husband Mike and son Michael. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. Carolyn’s work has appeared in a Wising-Up Press Anthology, The Motherhood Muse, Califragile, and From Whispers To Roars
Beautiful imagery