Prayer of the Shy Forest

As a child, when I closed my eyes to pray I saw a hissing
wall of TV snow. The tighter I closed them, the harder it
hissed. A song with two notes. AH ee AH ee AH ee AH . . .
But I kept coming back, like I kept playing, I know you
are but what am I? with my older brother who never lost
because, “I’m not your real brother, dork.” Kept coming
back. “Jesus, I made you a drawing of our yard.” Kept on
till the day Bigfoot made of prayer snow strolled through
the prayer snow. “Bigfoot?” AH ee AH ee AH ee AH . . .
Oh well. I knew it wasn’t indifference. Bigfoot was shy
like coyotes and me. I promised him I’d only pray for things
I really needed, and I’d never sneak up on him and scream,
“PAY ATTENTION!” like my tap dance teacher did: right
in my ear when I was listening to "Feelings,” wholly
enrapt, captivated. People who do that can go to hell.

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“This poem squishes together two scenes from my childhood. If I set out to write about a single idea, the poem rarely sets up. Maybe because the process lacks discovery. But if I bring together two ideas that have been existing in my mind independently, all bets are off. Introducing these two memories to each other in the empty room of the poem felt like healing.”
—Jennifer L. Knox