Praying

Blood drips on the pew; wings fall before my feet— a flurry of white feathers. I hold an open Bible and am reading Isaiah. I am so embarrassed. I still have four wings to cover my face and feet. My blood smells like burning beeswax. Impossible! It reminds me of underground diamond mines, the heat, the smell of salt, the penetrable darkness. I don’t belong underground. I dream only of sky where I have swallowed every cloud. The sky should not be blue, but golden, drenched with light, with nectar of honeysuckles and honeybees. I gather my strength to repel original need. I spit out darkness and the hypocrite’s creed!