Devin Kelly earned his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and co-hosts the Dead Rabbits Reading Series in New York City. He is the author of the collaborative chapbook with Melissa Smyth, This Cup of Absence (Anchor & Plume) and the books, Blood on Blood (Unknown Press), and In This Quiet Church of Night, I Say Amen (forthcoming 2017, ELJ Publications). He has been nominated for both the Pushcart and Best of the Net Prizes. He works as a college advisor in Queens, teaches at the City College of New York, and lives in Harlem.

Devin Kelly

New Interpretations of Faith

There's a woman on the block who signs herself each time she passes the church, stride unbroken, gaze cross-bound, toward wood & snare of binding. * Sometimes the moon wakes naked up the night, finds its rest of skin-shine & bone at the top of a mountain cloaked in dark. * I am so much blood inside. Rivers turn through tissue. There is no light there. It must be joyous at skin break, rupture as a kind of dawn. * I drink wine now & think of transubstantiation, mulling my tongue along its roof to taste for iron. I want to be stronger, the good book's binding before it opens. If I am read, I long to be read well. * We say the heart has chambers & we let people live inside. When we die, they climb out our mouth & stitch it closed with eyelash & silk, ash of skin & dust. * There is language here. Light as both verb & noun. The wake of world as the first breath of morning & the gathering before its funeral. * There's a man poking a hole into a slice of bread, he says, to make a bagel. What we know can be given different names. There's a cross. There's a cross of wood. There's a cross between who you are & who you want to be. You sit alone to decide the rest of your life. Outside a woman crosses toward a cross where she says someone let their body die & we came pouring out.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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