Your body is the church of the oak,
all gnarled bark, leaves like hands open
wide, and acorns with one seed each.
They hope to take root. Each new sapling
is a door to elsewhere. Woven from rushes,
your cross will protect us from the fires
we know will engulf our homes. Flames
lick our walls from the inside as we sleep.
The wallpaper pulls away from the plaster
as the heat thickens. I wake up, sweating
in my sleep, and press my hands to the wall.
I can hear the crackling of the wood and the
screams of water turning to steam. Brigid, where
is my escape? Show me the way out of this suffocation.