the eigth

He will not let go her circumstance
even when she offers silky throat,
thin wrists, a knobby spine.
Still he sees her as a novitiate,
face pressed to the marble floor,
the willing bride, the petitioner.

There is no forgiveness in his touch.
The slap of prayer against truth
builds, stone upon slick stone,
ever higher. She does not kneel,
not anymore. Instead she stands
near the window slit, eyes

the bone-shard moon that tilts westward.
If understanding were a knotted rope
that she could climb, then climb she would,
but there are only the vaporous remains
of elegant words, fragile strands

that will not hold together or bear the weight
of daylight. No it is not the Angelus
that waits behind her lips. She trembles
with fear at what he places on his altar,
despairs how easily he lights the fire..