Infant of Prague: Novena: Day Two

Novena:
Day Two

Oh Jesus, who has said “Heaven and earth

shall pass away but my word shall not

pass away,” through the intercession of Mary

Our Most Holy Mother I feel confident

my prayer will be granted. 

                                                Infant Jesus of Prague Novena Prayer

Maybe it wasn’t the same day I came to look

at you through the slats in the crib and how

it seemed like you were laying there in a cage

but near enough the same that you still hadn’t been

carried upstairs to the spare room close to being tended

if you cried (and for years I tried to measure

why you were that far away and maybe it was

because babies cry and make men shake

if they’ve been away days and days on a job

or a bender) and it happened you were calm

asleep and in the shadow of the Infant of Prague,

a stone statue my mother brought with her,

a gift from her Irish grandmother.  Behind me while I

stared at you my sister was flicking our

father’s zippo and the flint was all spark and dazzle

and I wanted to try it to show you if you woke

up and started to cry again.  There was some

kind of light, a moon maybe or a quiet night

bulb beside the Infant in his lace and satin

and didn’t he glow and maybe when you turned

your  head you’d see him standing

guard there and the rocking chair would move

back and forth while our mother smoked

and smoked to calm herself to will through

every novena she knew for the blood to stop

coming so heavy.  That night the chair was empty

and the flint glittered on the wheel and soon

I had the blue flame glow in the shadowed room.

I couldn’t know any prayers then at two

but I did know water and when his lace caught

fire I lamented I couldn’t reach the faucet

being so small.  I blew on the fire to try

to put it out but he must’ve needed some kind

of warm in that house and he took it all into

his arms like I’d see him do later in paintings in our

catechism book, take all the children up into his great 

and gentle face.  And when the paint cracked didn’t

he begin to cry, Jesus not you, and you looked

through the slats of your crib and saw it all

the smoke, the fire go up the curtain, the tin ceiling 

now a shrine of lit prayer.  You watched and I blew,

feeding the brief beast with every breath I could

without, or maybe before, choking and going

down on my knees from the club of the cuff

against my skull, first seeing her and how

her face matched the charred Jesus in the dark

room, his mouth pouting, impossible to read

other than: the baby, the baby, what were you

trying to do, oh my Jesus, to the baby?