Spring 2012: Issue 91

Jennifer Militello

I dream enraged light in the eyes of cathedrals.

Objects like flesh infecting our mouths,


the curriculum of salt my body is,

toxic as the daughterless hills.


The corrugated waking found lately

in my voice is the one sob the dove made

that became the moon.


I dream what God calls the elements. Adrift,


with oars lowered to the task—the object of me

flown from the roost.


A hungry downriver in my voice.

Sleep has gray and vocal ruins.


I have a little god in me

and she doesn’t cry at last.