and that has left me
a sister of a dead order.
I carry in asters
gone from purple to brown
to lay on the altar
but can't set them down.
Faith is a funny thing and I carry a cross
though the texts are tainted,
the deity lost.
St. Catherine of Alexandria
was nourished by milk from doves--
not by the relics and bones
of the notion of you, that I loved.
I am of the order, but not the abbess
at whose jeweled theca ghosts bow--
I carry my head like the body and bread
of the Chosen One loved by you now.
for Dverse Meeting The Bar "Conceit"