by Eleanor Ball

I roll my hope down the Mount. Robe my heart
in pleasure. I sink to my knees,
swallow the blessing like honeyed wine.
Unthread my body. The eye of the needle is near.
I show my brothers and sisters my scars, pressing my thumbs to the wounds.
Take this, my body, which is given up for you. For you,
I ride to the Gates at dawn. Make of my body an inkwell:
If I am the rib, if I am the womb, then I am the ear
fallen on blood-spattered grass. Do this in memory of me.
When you parted the sea, I ran for the waves. I craved
the crush of drowning. The freedom of floating,
cradled by the sea, until I beached on the sands of Babylon.
In my palms, the kisses of birds. In my dreams,
I soar above the rippling waves, olive branch gripped in my teeth.
All love is conditional. I believed until the dust settled.
Forgive me, Father, for I fly back to you.

Eleanor Ball is an MLIS candidate at the University of Iowa. Her work has appeared in ballast, Barnstorm, Psaltery & Lyre, and elsewhere. Come say hi @eleanorball.bsky.social.