The Reformation If the cracks in the dome of the temple are corpus callosum and cerebral cortex, our muted cries for more stability may finally rupture the cathedral foundations and open our staring eye to the Sun. It’s not how we see, but why we see it, when we penetrate our painted ceilings and reclaim them from the Demiurge. This twisting labyrinth is no longer finite, unbound from its tiles, as we take our golden spoons to the softening walls of crimson chambers, where new ventricles are created for rivers of Divine Love within our Sacred Hearts.
Jessica Khailo (she/her) lives in the state of Washington with her husband, two children, and one very good dog. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys complaining on walks through the woods, knitting, creating dodgy artwork, and singing her heart out like no one is listening. Her work has appeared in The Citron Review.
Amethyst Review 