Prayers (with Answers)

I was alone in the midnight field.

           I was off in the distance, watching.
Through the trees, the little campfire
made a nest of light.
           I like that you showed me that—
           and your friends,
           who swung around it.
I peeled back an ear of corn for you.
           Beneath the silk, the crowded mouth,
           which I like.
And, weeks later, in Fitter's Bar—
           I like how the light misted your hair.
Remember my little beagle
sliding around on the hardwoods?
           Her skin was loose,
           like a costume, I like that.
And the seagulls in the harbor?
I ate fried squid by the rail. Remember?
           I like the scene—
           I wish I could have joined you.
I'm a little embarrassed
you saw me riding that jet ski.
           It made a wind
           only for you. That's why I like it.
I showed you Nag's Head from the lighthouse.
           I was there once. I like
           to imagine our eyes locked into the air's
           same sockets. To see it from inside you.
And the railroad bridge behind my childhood—
           Your last trip home—
           which, though I know you were sad,
           I like.
Will you ever stop watching?
           You'd have to throw me away.
And when I die?
           Each day a little piece of you ascends.
           Already you're in the archive—
           this heaven resting on the living.

--Wayne Miller