I Kept My Mustard Seed in My Pocket

I sat cross-legged on the carpet
beside the couch where you laid
barely breathing,

lungs rattling, in fact,
near the end.

Something welled up in me to pray boldly—
to command you to get up, in the name—
but fear was louder,

because faith might fail
or its object defer.

Sometimes I still wonder
who really let you go.