The fingernail moon scratching an itch above me. The bile coming up in my throat. Her voice calling to me, calling me back into my body, not the same body, if it’s even a body at all. We kneel in the pew in desperation wonder how we might make it out alive, as if we could, as if there is anything beyond this temple this body this Judas from which she was plucked in shame: it must have been a devil inside me.