by Jeannie Prinsen

No church is big enough to contain
your relationship with Jesus, you said.
In that Gothic cathedral, did you belly

the arches like a superhero inflatable, the Hulk
bursting his undersized shirt? Did worshippers,
pinched by your piety, shrink to the edge

of the nave, did the bishop shoulder the sacristy
door as it strained against your devotion? No
mustard seed would do — you always claimed

a communion far more rarefied.
I believed it, me of little faith, back when
we were a thing worthy of saving.

Cracking the dome, you floated free and
staggered skyward, tethers trailing. You knew
you’d outgrow us all. I miss you, still

you get smaller and
smaller the higher
you fly.

Jeannie Prinsen lives with her husband, daughter, and son in Kingston, Ontario, where she is a copy editor for a local news organization. Her writing has appeared in Barren, Relief, Dust Poetry, and elsewhere. She can be found on Twitter/X at @JeanniePrinsen and Instagram at @jeannieprinsen.