I tried to pray once,
twice, a hundred times.
I was always scared of the person who would answer,
until they started answering.
It was usually my Ciocia, or my Dzia Dzia,
saying, 'hush hush little one",
or "be good to each other".
Most times, when I was lying balled up under the covers,
or hiding in my shower,
trying my hardest not to sob the walls out of existence,
those were the answers to my prayers.
The best advice usually came from myself,
telling me to take my time and be ridiculous,
even if just for the moment.
I didn't think I needed God to tell me that,
when I could tell  that to myself.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a thousand times.
I wasn't sure what to pray about.
I felt weird reliving my day in narrative form,
and I didn't want to ask for favors or forgiveness like Christmas gifts.
I'll find my own good community,
my own piece of mind.

I tried to pray once,
twice, a million times.
Each time, the answers wouldn't come, and I was left worshipping the ground I had walked on 10 minutes before;
the same amount of dried leaves and holey socks littering the crosswalk of my bedroom.

I tried to pray once,
to infinity. To a God without a name, without a face.
It always came back to my Ciocia, though.
Who lives in your white house, your whitewashed walls of glory and redemption?