In modest drape of cornflower
crepon, curl-shawled an uncut
crown, the bride of fire stands on
flat soles for her anointing.
Oil-crossed brow like a bullseye
for the Spirit, her uptilt gaze
guides congregant eyes in heliac rising,
so the Son may set on them again.
They robe her in a sweat-silk cloak
of coaxing palms, invoke the Lord of
Pleas, open her throat. She’ll spread her
lips for tongues of flame and beg.
But this is sober witchery. She utters
incantations, spells a hex on recognition,
mutters nonsense dulcet choruses
they seize as holy kinsong.
In their hot tumult of lit-wick bliss,
her soul is a small cool stone.
She spends them, and she sates them
and she departs unwed, lone
celibate among the saints.
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