Petition

What god will catch me when I’m down, when I’ve taken sufficient drink to reveal myself, when my words are little more than a blurring of consonant and vowel? I’m drunk on spring: branches of waxy leaves that greet me at my driveway, a family clutching trays of sweets. How can I sing of this? If I cannot sing, then make me mute. Or lend me words, send me the taste of another’s prayer, cool as a coin newly minted on the tongue.