4 in the afternoon, Sunday. there is a pocket book of Sudoku on the little kitchen table. one chair, occupied. a fountain pen lounges between the white birch pages. each puzzle is marked by scribbled numbers and sloppy notes. wind tiptoes through the open window, a gentle exhale, and a streak of gold daytime runs rampant over the counter tops. Gale Garnett soothes, “We’ll Sing in the Sunshine,” from the tuned radio. the house plants dance, a shapeless wiggle to the melody. i’m whistling; a hermit thrush outside matches my tune. this, i think, is my church: the wind chimes are my ringing bells, the plated toast begs my reverence, the sticky sweet strawberry jam trills a prayer. every hum is gospel.

Nicole Castillo (she/her) is a queer and neurodivergent writer from Florida. Her poems are from an unpublished collection titled, “Mellifluous.” When she’s not reading or writing, you can find her cuddling one of her five cats.