Swaddling; Sarah Bruce

Sarah Bruce

Swaddling

I My suit jacket is smothered in the dust of communion wafers as I nestle under this pew. I need to be small and safe, a sanctuary within a sanctuary, in a womb of my own.

II A bed once cradeled me, soft like a nascent fire’s first breath. I lay for hours and hours in something like slumber, my forearms draped over ribcage and hips

III Three decades ago, before sundown in the summer, I would catch fireflies in my jar. Mother told me to release them peacefully, but I envied the peace that they already had.