Heartfast
after the visions of Catherine of Siena
The color of beloved is red. I’ve bathed in it, his lambsblood—
worn his foreskin ‘round my
finger; what better gift is there for a lordsbride than four
wounds: father, son, holy spirit—I
knifed my hair, threw food in the fire, wrapped my mother’s
wishes ‘round the legs of fledglings
and shoved
them from the nest.
If the mind is a cell, then what is a heart? A pyre made by blue
wefts, palm-eerie, so easily snuck out
of a chest. I neglected it—scarletstone of my own, I prayed
for hollowness, for the whirl of ashes,
prayed for cleanness notyetseen. Christ-beloved planted a thrum
with his thumb. His holy heart so hot—
wanted by all
but buried in me.
.
I try to speak of it, but the tongue does not know this dance. I
can show you, instead, my flesh: ribscar
smiling beneath my breast. Touch these bones after I am dead.
Starlight is but a dew drop compared
to God’s love, hot. I spend hours seeking to name it. My heart.
My whispering bloodpeach. Christ
tells it a secret
before he hides it in his sleeve.
Kale Hensley is a West Virginian by birth and a poet by faith. You can keep up with them at kalehens.com.
