paloma

sometimes I miss
the press
of a soft breast
in my palm—
surprising weight
for something
capable of flight.
they were
the sole religion
I’ll confess;
benediction
in every brush
of wing,
confessors granting
absolution with solemn,
nodding heads.
feather and bone
are our holiest relics.
I believe in resurrection
each time I see
another flock 
take rise.

_