Elena Kane

The crowning starts with a pulse that does not belong to my daughter.

The crimson heart hanging over the altar ( large as a subway car, held by chains made from every MetroCard ever used in sorrow) pulses once and the cathedral breathes in. The air is drawn out of my lungs Alexander’s and every member of my family until our chests ache and our eyesight narrows. The marble floor, beneath us undulates like liquid then solidifies into a glass that mirrors us flawlessly (yet ...