She seeks solace in Oolong tea
and lemon scented soaps ;
the hours hold a rosary
like a spent child on her lap.
At night subdued by candles,
hair an apostasy of tangles,
she sleeps knotted - the rope
of a woman who needs
all her faith to believe
she has not married poorly.
I make an abacus of her spine,
measure her labor with pulleys,
count each breath until I know
its length by the weight
of her absence against me.
I go where the light goes
when the flame is blown,
My penance to lie
in the dark, listen
for the murmur at my ear-
the unquiet tongues of the saved.
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