Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom

Scent in the Cathedral

It's the mother in me still sealed inside

my skin, the last Russian doll crushed

like salt in its shaker.  Just add flour

and water, yeast to rise.  The Resurrection

Chapel, on the lowest level, called

The Crypt, tight and hot as a bread

oven,  nauseating, salty-sweet, breathes

almost like a living thing, in waves of

paraffin heavy like tallow -- bovine fat

drained like a burden, rendered into

light.  I kneel and forget what I came for,

light a penny votive  to some unnamed

gods of earth and clay, of flesh and stone,

for redemption from this heart of fire

and ether.  Body of the mother, holy crypt. 

Brother Houdini be with us now, amen.

<< previous :: contents :: next >>