In the belly of an old church

Nadine Ellsworth-Moran

No one threw me overboard—

but like Jonah I have to screw up my courage,

climb the rail myself, face what lies beneath,

beyond my knowing, where the ocean

door is heavy, emanating incense, musky

smoke and spice from an ancient current

where the dag gadol with its stone mouth

waits to gulp me down.

Inside the air smells blue, 

the scent of stained glass
communing with anemic light

filtering through baleen plates

and rises from candles 

that bow before their saints.

Even here remain the hints

of sweet almond paste, festal days, 

song beneath words, communion bread—

these hookbaits of salvation cast

into my offenses and laments,

lures caught in the arched timber spine.

The surface, so far and sliverthin breathed

through coldsteeped lungs, I pull old wool

the widows wear tight around my shoulders, 

inhale a heady lanolin, peat moss lost
between slick stone ribs, centuries

of damp, and lick the brine

from my lips before

I try to pray.

Image by Harry Rajchgot (2024)