by Tristan Cody

i poked holes into my palms

when it came time to pray.

hoping that maybe some of the holy liquid

would drip

into the cathedral floors

and into bones holding up sinners &

saints. i thought

god would understand my sentiment of knowing

departed people and the segments

that drove them mad.


the sundays that stood churchless

in the yard, outside by dad’s

overpriced tools

always told me stories of the whale

that swallowed the man that swallowed

his pride that ate his faith

and ended up a new whale with hands

as big as baskets.


to this day he hands out bread

in his fresh-baked book of poems

and waits for me to poke more

tiny holes into my tiny hands.


half-praying a please.

Tristan Cody is the Creative Director of POCKETFIRE and Poetry Editor for the winnow magazine. Poetry published in HARK!, Mad Swirl and more.


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