by Jason Kahler
"When we die we all become fish"
I said to no one, & the French cathedral on television
burned & the transmission's signal flared
with the glow of centuries of relics
rising on angry wind, at last
exposed to sky. What does it smell like,
all that incense, all at once?
I've stood in that cathedral's shadow
and I'm taking its immolation personally.
Fire & water share the same ebullience.
Heat curls the edges of crucifix
or oil painting in equal measure. Stained glass
or onionskin blushed dark by fire. Old stones hewn
into the black, icons melted to their fingertips. Secrets like prayer freed from the walls
lifted toward stars.
When we die we all become fish
because it's water, isn't it,
that calls us home in the end? After the dust. The dusk.
The fire of sunrise. Eyes that once focused
through the womb's darkness learned the colors of the air,
but water we know like our mothers' viscous heartbeats.
We rebuild with water, form the mortar with our hands
made gray with labor. Until
death arrives, too, like a reflecting pool,
cool & lonely & smooth.
Jason Kahler is a teacher, writer, and researcher from Southeast Michigan. His scholarship and creative work have appeared in or are forthcoming from Cosmic Horror Monthly, Connecticut River Review, The Columbia Journal, The Hong Kong Review, Seneca Review, College English, the Journal of Contemporary Criminal Justice, the Stonecoast Review, and other publications. He can be found on X (formerly Twitter), Bluesky (jasonkahler3.bsky.social), and his own website.