for Anne Rice (presented to her in person at a book signing)



Night time: solitude: fallen curtains
The parents have gone to their separate beds
and I to mine.
In this my solitary tower
I keep my vigil -

I light a votive
against night's darkness
and carry it to my closet. There,
amid the shoes and sneakers and Sunday dresses,
I say my novena. The uniform skirts,
garish in blue and green and black tartan riot,
have become stained glass windows.
I no longer notice
that I kneel on saddle shoes -

Darkness has fallen.
Little has changed since puberty.
In the closet, shut tight against the world
I kneel on piles of black leather articles,
mouthing prayers to a goddess
whose name I barely know

(chrome hooks clacking like rosary beads)

the books of recitations, well-thumbed like missals,
become sweat-stained, dog-eared,
used.

Lady, your prayers for me
are well spent -

I have been at vespers
and faithfully I light candles
where the darkness touches my corners;
I take communion
of red wine and printed parchment.
There, where my hands have been touched by page
is a mark of the holy,
a stigmata of quill.

But how can one be saved
who asks for no mercy,
no deliverance from sin?

Every night,
by the candle,
by the book,
I am delivered
unto darkness

and my soul sears
like fire.