Embroideries

In this small room 
the bishop sits like God 
Himself 
broad farmer face upon 
a red neck shining out of his 
collar like Moses’ face 
at Sinai 
red ears burning 
like the bush 

he asks 
in his farmer’s voice 
if I am pure 
a princess in Zion 

Oh how the fires of Sinai 
consume the world’s unblemished 
lambs   firstlings 
without spot or broken 
bone 
My illuminated blemishes are 
new embroideries 
evident as Hawthorne’s Prynne’s 
a hyaline film emerging 
on my breast

another room 
another ceiling      shadowed        curtains open 
your eyes      your hands in the hard dark 
your mouth breathing on mine 
Andy Williams crooning.       moon river 
from a portable radio 
your eyes      your hands        your mouth 
wherever you’re going 
the voice sings 
wherever you’re going 
wherever    where      ever 

I burn under the bishop’s 
farmer eyes 
with prismed fires fierce 
as Sinai’s.