a holy offering

Uncle Marvin called himself Jesus,

stood barefoot in the backyard, arms outstretched,

waiting for the heavens to crack open,

waiting for the Rapture to claim him.

When it didn’t, he preached to the walls,

spoke in tongues to the sink and the stovetop,

new scriptures rattling from his lips.

By the end, his sermons slowed to whispers,

until the floorboards swallowed him.

No one noticed at first.

Not until the house began to smell–

something sweet, something sour,

something settling into the grain of the wood.

He had melted–

a holy offering to the house,

his body breaking like consecrated bread,

his marrow turned to sacramental wine.

They carved the wood from the floor

to remove what was left of him.

At night I’d hover over the new boards,

a disciple waiting for a sign.

I swore I could hear it–

whispers curling up from the grain,

prayers trapped beneath the altar of wood.