I'll hide you in my pockets, hang you
limp against my sides. Odd
jobs are all you'll get now - waving
flags, stirring coffee, lifting
cigarettes or pens.

I trusted you to understand
the Braille of her lips, to read
the fine lines of her hair,
to caress the fragile pages
of her arms, her breasts, the straightness
of her perfect bound spine,
to memorize her Scripture, every word
a trembling revelation, a Holy
confidence exchanged
in the intimate finger-spellings of love.

You could have touched her Truth then, traced
some paraphrase of mine - But you,
you self-serving critics,
could only deconstruct her,
skim her for allusions,
and let her slip, a faithless translation,
right through your arrogant, posturing fingers.

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