Traditions of Seeking

Prayers spill, from painted lips, like a mess forthcoming,

Risen waters, shaky upon her brow and her left cheek,

Opening like a void that's as big as her house, or maybe a room that's never full and,

Small, like the space between her gathered fingers or the way her body hunkers in, maybe,

Enough was a word she wished she learned but could never grasp onto—yet again.