I think of her as I wander from room to room in
my blue bathrobe, this anchoress who was always
alone. Now that I am home, her story lingers, one
I recited as I ushered visitors through her reproduced
cell. She survived the Black Death, its scourge and
stench, bore more than enough weight for one life.
I would think she would desire only sweetness—
green fields starred with thistle, spheres of milkweed
luring butterflies. Instead she chose a cell with no exit,
silence and stone. Three windows for her triune God.
At least she chose it.
Here at home, the weight of my own solitude spreads
like a yellow bruise. I haven’t showered for days, but
since she rarely bathed at all, I’m good. Authentic.
She penned pious revelations about the Lord while I
scribble lists and binge The Young Pope. Close enough.
I know she was revered as holy, as close to God as one
could get, but surely she missed the heat of touch, the lock
of fingers intertwined, the key of them unwinding. Surely
she wept each time the priest intoned Hoc est corpus
meum pro vobis—this is my body, given for you.
A body without touch cannot be certain it exists.
