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by Holly Dodge

Saint Cecilia digs her slender talons into my ceiling.


She weeps when he tells me to shut the piano.

Her tears fill the room with a warm briny offense that floats me to the top.

I stay there for eleven years.

The white keys go up.

The black keys go down.


Saint Cecilia stands in the corner watching me.


She hums day and night.

A vibration, a tension of a passing note

Play me the song of your youth.

But, I don’t remember it.

Neither do I, she murmurs.


Saint Cecilia holds my hand as I take a vow.


Her voice drowns out his words.

She sings so loud our ears begin to ring.

The only ring that will matter.

Cece, be quiet.

But, I’m singing of heaven.

I know you can’t see it yet.



Saint Cecilia kisses me three times on the neck.


I feel her tempo in my blood.

I’m not sure if it’s the breeze or her breath that light me on fire.

Sing me that song I like.

But, I only remember the chorus.

That’s the only part people care about.

Sing it loud.



Saint Cecilia undresses me with a wink.


She hovers above my nakedness.

Familiar as a lullaby. Soft as a Psalm.

An opus of parts.

Tell me about heaven, Cece.

You’ll learn that verse soon. 

Just listen.

Holly Dodge resides in the Minnesota River Valley community of North Mankato. She currently studies Creative Writing at Minnesota State University, Mankato as a non-traditional student. Her favorite hobbies include pouring coffee mid-drip and reading library books in the bathtub.

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November 2018

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