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Beat, the bird wing
with the bird heart.
The scholars with arguments
folded in their grey cloth.
My God had no argument,
he panted through my body
until the body was inward
like the caves: cool, cavernous.
Until it was as the cliffs:
terrifying, dizzy. The bird I followed
with my eye, glided on the held breath,
descended in the exhale.
She was a bird in the mouth,
bird in the hand.
The closest to their church she came
was the drain with shallow water.
There is nowhere for them to go,
except through the mouths of the priests,
which is nowhere.

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Copyright © 2015 Jessica Anne Cuello All rights reserved
from New Letters
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission