Her Byzantine crucifix pendant is an albatross around my neck.
I cross myself before entering the house of God her men built.
I kneel before idols, disciples fixed from her eyes' golden flecks,
And drink wine from the chalice of those whose blood was spilt.
Her silk bridal veil is a winding sheet wrapped around my face.
I'm beckoned to bed by a tyrant, afraid to fall asleep at my post.
Tired of the pilgrimage men before me made to the Holy Place,
I follow her down the aisle to promise myself to a virgin's ghost.
YOU ARE READING
Handfuls of Dust
Poetry"Handfuls of Dust" is a deep, diverse collection of poems I have written over the past two years.
