Maybe we wander the soundless antechambers
Maybe we wander the soundless antechambers, halls
and gateways, rustling scapular and underskirt, slight
swinging of the cross on its cord makes a sound like
a bottle fly. Angular shadows, stories-tall, color
of Mourvèdre grapes, purple-black with a yeasty haze.
Maybe—can it be? Death is a nunnery? Six lines and sick
already of this allegory. Looking for a non-fussy definition
of the Sublime. Something I can really sink my teeth into
like the tough meat of an animal, the last of its kind. Or
spinning the wool of a black sheep, all the while telling
myself the story of myself. Nurse says the membrane
between life and death will thin like the effacement
of the cervix. I remember begging to die when I gave
birth and begging to be born when I was dying.