17

4 Dec 2023

Often, she bends like Jessica beside the folds

To hear flittering wings and some psychological tricks

Which count with every other breath she holds.

She holds her helpless breast upon her door.

The lamp, she’d hush and let the night burn low

While she, grown, gaunt in her waiting gown.

Noises like cardinals would gather and crow

And they’d await you, the pontiff.

Let it be your hand she hears!

The warm thunder under your bone

Then heart stricken light from the gripes you’d spit

Like cud. She’s bent at the door like stone.