Prayer to St Rage (a semi-true story)
I was unaware, St Rage,
but the sign stopped me cold.
When I called the number
they said they were a muffler shop.
I said, her name is on your sign.
They said some letters fell off.
But I saw the sign, I said.
I know she’s here with us.
You’re the right saint for now, St Rage,
the most perfect one
for knowing babies breathed tear gas,
wore bunny hats as they disappeared,
for watching people murdered for words
and helping others,
for seeing neighbors stolen, beaten,
doors broken down, elders taken
in bathrobes, for realizing cruelty
is their actual, measurable goal.
We both know they have quotas.
What do we do, St Rage,
O Mother of mothers
who are incandescently wrathful? Lead us
with your power and holy warming fires.
Bring us money so we can bring food.
Uncover our strength to observe and document.
Find us justice, find us peace, find us rides
for kids to and from school, for parents
to the doctor, to the store. Find us sanctuary
so we can share it, open our doors.
O St Rage, keep our hearts pure
and our anger righteous. Keep our eyes
full of milk to wash away the sting.
Let us march. Let us melt their resolve.
Let our might be directed
to those with cruel, broken hearts,
their trauma asking them to harm us,
I ask you to stand in their way.
St. Rage, I turn my cheek
from kindness, I want to hate
and punch their faces, but I don’t.
Calm resistance feels hollow,
but You must have a purpose.
Lead us in the way of Your plan.
Deliver us out of their darkness.
The muffler shop hung up but thanked me
for praying with them.
St Rage, keep us safe,
keep us holy in community,
keep us furious.