Churched

By JESS RICHARDS

image of heart on slate

Divided Heart: painting on slate, Jess Richards 2014.

 

Wellington, New Zealand

Stained light shines on breath-less angels
who occupy a stone heaven-on-earth without living for touch
without having felt another human enfolding them against soil.
Only the winged can lift themselves so high
but freeze half-way to the clouds
locked in cold bodies, solo-flight paused.
A position of clasping and gazing only up or down—
they must pray and kill with those clean slab-hands
while alongside them are people they can’t even see.
Inside a stone book with block-pages there are so many lists:
how many new orphanages are to be built
how many fresh graves are to be dug.
And how many humans claim their coldest decisions belong to god
while secretly yearning for the warmth of a hollow womb.

 

Jess Richards is the author of three novels: Snake Ropes, Cooking with Bones, and City of Circles, all published by Sceptre in the UK. She also writes short fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry; many of these have been published in various anthologies. She is currently working on a creative nonfiction project on the theme of birds and ghosts. Originally from Scotland, Jess now lives in Wellington, New Zealand, with her wife and two cats.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Churched

Related Posts

I/Teh Ran

SARVIN PARVIZ
We were celebrating a friend’s birthday in our group chat, signing his birthday card, together apart, when Israel launched the strikes. Now we are on the call, and someone says she was making Adaspolo, preparing the lentils when she heard the strike. She could stop, she thought to herself, that she should.

A sculpture bunny leaning against a book

Three Poems by Mary Angelino

MARY ANGELINO
The woman comes back each week / to look at me, to look / at regret—that motor stuck in the living / room wall, ropes tied / to each object, spooling everything in. She / comes back to watch / what leaving does. Today, her portrait / splinters—last month, it was only / askew

A horseshoe crab on the sand

Cape May, midsummer

EVELYN MAGUIRE
I become a house lived-in. Living in my mother’s house, again, it’s easy to drift into the past. Blue bottle light, dust motes, a silver rattle. The sound of it: butterfly wings. I am tender towards everything. Everything is a child and I am everything’s mother.