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.