The Nun
The Nun
From inscribing the sign of the cross
On her soft body for so many years
Small marks appeared
At each shoulder, her forehead, her chest,
Not stigmata, but divots where her flesh
Had given way under her fingers
Like stone dimpled by the metronomic
Drip of water, so that when the coroner
Who volunteered to drive clear
Out to the oak-cloaked convent
To lay out the dead nuns
Laid her out, he saw what
Her faith had done, but told no one.