The Bird in my mouth sings Cathedrals

By Amy Jarvis

archaism, like something as an afterthought of holy, like every
dish in the sink after we’ve fully devoured dinner &
our stomachs spillingover, like the opposite of empty. I don’t believe in astrology in typical form, the deciding of fate falling into something cosmic—but I’ll
slip my hands into the stars and beg to be ascended. this winter, the silence rings immaculate. we wring out the night sky like the towel after
washing the dishes. & speak devoutly inside my mouth, like a dove
glitters under my tongue & extends its wings to spill out light. back
when we were still ravenous, we clasped shared hands to pray. we don’t
bless the meal as much as we thank our stomachs—mine is still borrowed
& upended by the bug I caught mid-November, yet to be shaken
out clean. I imagine sparrows soaring, anthropomorphize them into mind-over-matter. outside, every tree dusted
with fresh crystalline. the next morning, the lake shifting & cracking,
tectonic underneath a fresh sheet of ice. everything blanketed & sparkling,
my meal holding resolute deep down & intestinal,

to both I say amen.