If It’s True

A keening nun appears to me.
At least I think she is a nun.
And I imagine she is keening –
although soundless, it’s the silence
of a silent loaded gun. As if to unknot

something hot inside her heart,
her head is leaning to the right,
her arms stretch diametrically across
her chest up to her left: I’m at a loss
to make sense of the rest. Perhaps

I’m wrong about the whole: perhaps
she isn’t mourning funereally at all.
(Perhaps she’s only dressed up like
a nun.) But she is on her knees –
spread wide apart, bright cherry red,

commingling into rose – disseminating
into art which hoses upward towards
her head – which may suggest
less agony of dying than an ecstasy
in bed. I mean no disrespect, you see:

but something seems, adverbially,
to be coming to her that could be
described succinctly as “orgasmically.”
I guess we shouldn’t find this odd –
if it’s true she married God.




 
 
 
 
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