Mother Superior, I Cannot Pray — Slender Aphrodite has set the Nunnery Ablaze
A poem.
Walking through the convent,
I pick a few things that belong to Sister Catherine
a scarf, a letter, a sewing needle and its thread.
Passing through the hall I gather some trinkets from Sister Anne,
a letter opener, a holy text, that wilting vase of lilies.
I have started a fire in the fireplace —
A sensible location.
It is already roaring with all my belongings,
everything I’ve ever held, donned,
hung on the wall to admire.
I want to stuff the entire building into the flames,
an architectural ouroboros.
But Cécilia urges patience,
she clutches my hand
as the flames feel their way towards her room —
a million hot sins seeking absolution.
Won’t you forgive me for disinterring that body?
Won’t that body forgive me?
Don’t you all know your Sappho:
“Sweet mother, I cannot weave –
slender Aphrodite has overcome me
with longing…
