by Holly Day

quiet church lies beneath

the marching

feet of men, a candle mass

that lead the blind fish on. I don't know

how long I've sat here, listening to

the drip of water, I'm

turning to stone, inside out.

winged choirs of bats flutter up

above, their nail-head eyes waiting for me

to fall asleep. so

I stay awake. I sit here, trying to see

their furry bodies, thick smears of blood

against the night.

 Jackie Rhoadesshapeimage_7_link_0