Kaleigh Jae Poet Free verse

Saint of The Rabid Heart

The chapel swallowed my name whole,
left it hanging in the rafters
with the smoke
and the blackened wings
of moths who craved the candlelight with a burning passion.
I had learned young
how to pray, kneel and bow
to the gods my aunts worshipped,
wondering always how their knees
never bled like mine.

I learned quickly
how to hold my voice
in the back of my throat,
how to make my silence sound beautiful.

There is a fox-heart pacing beneath my ribs,
red-furred and rabid with psalms.
There are forests growing in my throat,
roots splitting the hymns apart
stone by stone.
Even the trees outside the chapel
bent away from the door that night.
Somewhere deep in the valley,
a fox cried out like a warning bell.
The floorboards groaned beneath him,
old wood speaking the language of storms,
and the candle flame trembled
every time he said my name.
Dusk caught blue in the windows,
thin as bruises beneath the broken glass and skin.
Even the saints along the walls
turned their eyes away.
when he touched me,
The crows went quiet.
Even the river held its breath.
And I—
good, sainted thing that I was—
lay there like a field after harvest,
stripped down to dirt
and bone
praying for some righteous flood
to carry me elsewhere.
It never came.
So I made divinity out of and into myself.
I stitched my halo from briars,
pressed foxglove to my tongue,
bathed in the creek
where the dead deer sleep,
their pearl-white ribs
gleaming like cathedral windows
beneath the water.
I buried every girl I used to be
beneath an oak tree split by lightning.
She deserved a proper funeral.
She deserved mourning bells,
not his hands clutching her softness
like a thief testing doors at dusk.

Now when I sing,
the wolves come closer.
Now when I pray,
it sounds like thunder
dragging itself across the hills.

And if he saw me tonight—
mud-crowned and feral,
with heaven burning blue
beneath my skin—
he would call me wicked.
And he would be right.
Because I have learned
there is no fury more sacred
than that of a woman
who finally believes
her rage is the only holy thing in this wretched world

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment