SHE KNEELS, THE GOOD SISTER THOMAS, NATIVE Poem by Yvette Christiansë

My lips bear witness. Distemper!
Those who chain Sunday
from the doors of their week,
how flaccid their Amens,
how thin their charity.

Take this, my body.
I make my bed -
earnest as salt -
in your promises -
all vanities will be laid low,
even to the ocean's floor.

And waves will be
wreaths of white,
our bridal skirt,
and we will glory-glory!
in the name of the sword
that will cut them,
in pieces, in pieces
like rude weeds
in a good man's
vin-n-n-n-nnn-ne-yard.