Mother Inferior Speaks To Someone Other
Than Dortchen
The mystery
Comes and I
Don’t lie down.
I rub my face in it.
Not cold like
I imagined,
But stinging.
All the time
I get up.
To track the army. No
Army, the soldiers. No
Soldiers, the men
Smacking and bruising
The convent walls. I watch
Flame curdle
From a peony and the head
Of a stooped man.
Whose history is this
I’m recording?
I wasn’t elsewhere.
I have purpose
Unlike Dortchen
Wasting her days
Attempting to name
The spaces. A catalog
Of all we couldn’t say.
And here, Dortchen,
In between the fixture
And the bulb?
A moth graveyard,
She tells me. Having
Never seen a graveyard.
Knowing nothing of digging.
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