The Nun's Story (Poetry)

She followed the trail of a poet —
she tracked him for days at a time —
he littered the road with allusions
and couplets unsure of the rhyme
so she picked them all up
stirred them round in a cup
and the verses she poured were sublime —
they flowed on the page
full of passion’s dark rage
and critics declared them divine.

She studied the hand of an artist
and watched as he painted her smile —
the colours ran cold in the moonlight
and strange was the mark of his style
so she remixed the tones
to a shade of her own
and put her guilt feelings on trial —
vermillion for grief —
strings of gaudy belief
unravelling after a while.

She posed in the nude for a sculptor
convinced that his talent was true —
he rendered her heart like an oyster
the pearl was a deep ocean blue —
they made love on the floor
when the daylight was poor
’til the dawn when the sunrise broke through
and the dust in her hair
and his faraway stare
were the words of a song that she knew.

She came to the gates of a convent
the sisters there welcomed her in —
they sang her sweet hymns of devotion
and stripped her of sorrow and sin —
so she traded her clothes
for a sackcloth like those
worn by penitents — shapeless and thin
then they cut off her hair
and to ease her despair
they bullwhipped her pretty pink skin.

Now she lives in their grim drafty prison
and dreams of the poet again —
the ghosts of the artist and sculptor
rekindle her longing for men
and she beats on the door
even though she is sure
no one listens or pities her pain
and the window’s too high
where a square of grey sky
has painted a cloud with her name.

Gone crazy from praying to shadows
with silence her whispering friend
the sisters spy fearful of devils
and burn every letter she sends
but alone in the night
by the moon’s slanting light
she dances with virile young men
and their warm bodies press
through the silk of her dress
and she feels like a woman again.

[Also on Deviant Art]