holy pockets full

The Visit

Darkness envelops the visit
from my dead father. He says psychic
automatism betrayed him—the paranoiac
critical debased him. We count

the shadows of ghosts untethered
from the sheets over their heads—
one forgot to cut the eyeholes out—
a blind ghost singing off-key
from a torn hymnal. We cram

communion hosts in our maws—
this batch overcooked / oversalted—
our holy pockets full then empty. We wade

ankle deep in wafers to the vestry.
It’s snowing outside. We sink through
the floor. We forget what we’ve forgotten.

What I’m Reading:

“If Justice Alito wants you to be governed by the laws of the 17th century, you should take a close look at that century. Is that when you want to live?”

— Margaret Atwood / “I Invented Gilead. The Supreme Court Is Making It Real”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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