Monks and Minnows

My palace looks a bit different.

Wrought with bars of iron and chilly nights,

an altar made of concrete,

a solace catered by fright.

The echo howls of two—

my echo and the one that stirs within the stillness,

from the pews.

When the time is right, which is not often my watch,

abides the only light

in this calloused, hard cell

where shadows rehearse

their quiet whispers.

Dr. Ann Marie would swear by the rituals of the Monk,

curled spine,

fetal for days.

Cocooned.

As if an embryo— but of growing

faith,

in their dark corners.

Concealing every minute

that crippled them,

then cradled them,

as if sorrow was teething it’s

tenderness.

She told me that thoughts were just

fishy—fish.

And all they do is swim.

And if I let them, they’ll swim on by.

As I watch, their different color schemes,

some with patterns and some with lies.

But all without teeth.

Just keep swimming.

Shallow breath halted

like a prisoners praying hands.

And every soul that kneels here,

by choice, this prison becomes a temple,

each bar—a psalm.

Each brick, a stained-glass window.

If this is exile,

then suffer it well.

For even within these walls,

chains can break.

I don’t know where she is today,

but I’m sure that place is a velvet-hush.

A settled one.