Suffering reknits creation. In suffering we become the actors in the divine drama, until the beauty of the uncreated is made fully manifest. —Op. cit 32.
There is a traced place around the drag of your eyes
that a traitor the face is. Here, the forehead is like sand
Here, the mouth torn with terse flattery
as if the lips were scarred by threadpoint.
In the badlands of your youth
the wilderness of first loving
walking with you was like dark walnut with a hint of fire
and your smile broke teeth.
I knew your father.
That wolf. My long hip tooth shall bite him yet
I will tear his thigh for what he did to you.
You were betrayed on the day of your birth.
A choice remains. The Norns* decree
your treason. But I will live no prophecy
the brother to my blood.
My Beloved. Here, your soul is torn, like chicken skin.
[*In Norse mythology, the Fates are known as the Norns.]