24: Bound, by fullfathomfive

Dragged up, in veils
in pots of stew, hot sticky fingers
soft sickly dew
masked in our unending youth
by your impermanence
she grew.

Iron fist, silver-coated leaves
scripture’s art, old poetry
smoky fingers grasped her hair
and pulled, hot footsteps in the sand
beside her loped, smoky fingers grasped
her hands, moved through her
never knew her
fire pulled at her lungs and her throat.

They chanted whispers, whispered chants
bound eyes, leeched, preserved a flower
by drying out, in screams and shouts
banished devils in hoarse shrieks
fire leaked from her eyes like scalded ants
and licked like hell at the soles
of her feet.

She lost a losing fight. Manna in a desert
dead meat white on a stubbed bed
they screamed and cried, where were you
Sire, these bindings shoved
her through the mire like callused hands
too great to feel your pallid, flaccid touch.
Life being grey, they let us pray
for hours by her bed that day.

I kneel here now, beside her (dead)
she is as a doll, tired, spent
wispy fingers brush my thick-clothed head
and I beg you now
to show yourself.
We live our lives, we clamber spires
we think on you when we love, eat, tire
she spent her life in your company: yet
when the time came, she wept and she wept
for You, You did not come.  I see
Mother Superior frown...

For the love of God:
Let her hair down. Pull dark circles away
from the whites of her eyes, instead of this mask
let the bright dawn cry
for the luxtrous beauty of a golden stream
let a naked skin crinkle in the heat of a day
let a body broken sigh in any way
but in, let her scream or shout or laugh
if she wanted to. Let her bathe
in running water, let
my friend, young girl
be young, my Lord, may we let her hair
down
and let it
run like fingers, pink, young, real
along the creases, textured
let her feel for a first time the fruit
and youth and beauty, living truth
      of Your
          Creation.