I mourn what is in its path.
This congregation full of wax museum statues, and God still wants us
kneeling. He’s burned part of the church down, which is to say
a part of us. Imagine if we, too, fell—fell under the spell of the light
coming from his grapevine arms, through his fingernails acting as
the matches we light on Advent wreathes. Even the burned
would get haloes around their heads. Our ghosts, bouncing off walls
made from sterile ash to ash to the ash we haven’t claimed yet.
It's not every day that Our Lady burns, says a père to his son
baptized, now, by fire. You are an artifact. I shall shove you away
before your stained-glass eyes shatter in front of my own.
STEPHANIE CHANG is a rising freshman at University College London and currently based in Vancouver, Canada. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, Kenyon Review, Diode Poetry Journal, COUNTERCLOCK, and Berkeley Poetry Review. Her chapbook, NIGHT MARKET IN TECHNICOLOR, is forthcoming from Ghost City Press (August 2020). She reads for Muzzle Magazine and interns at Sine Theta Magazine.