Her mercy rises new with dawn each day,
And as your eyes trace every dip and curve
you struggle for the words that will convey
a love you know you know you can't deserve.
Somehow your icon sees something in you
now, when you can't stand standing anymore,
that makes you covet eyes to see it, too.
Instead, your knees have never left the floor.
You search the stained glass saints for something real,
and arrow-pierced, flame-eaten, crowned in stars,
they found a fraction of the fear you feel
each time her fingers find your newest scars.
Like a dog-eared hymnal in the pews
she holds your battered hand in hers, to sing
and celebrate the never-new good news,
and just like that, you'd give her everything.
Her laughter justifies your piety,
like cheap communion wine, so bittersweet,
and vanquishes your cool sobriety
in warmth, revival, penance incomplete.
"Sister, go and sin no more," she said,
and piece by piece, hand to your mouth she fed
remembrance of her body, breaking bread.
Perhaps she'll let you drown in her, instead.
Iron Noder 2021, 10/30