So I have boarded barque and sailed
the roads to monastery; left
my hens in others’ care to play
at being monk awhile. No world
for women this but woman I
have left behind, in search—of what?
of bliss? Conveying journals blank,
some coin, and only what could fit
in trunk, I traded rustic cell
for one of century-cured brick where
good few before have lived and died,
broke vow of marriage bed with ease
for pallet chaste—these winter months
at least. Obedient to voice
I cannot name as ill or kind
I practice discipline tried by some
with pen and page. Pileated
woodpecker rings matins and I
come hooded, muffed, from fire to walk
glazed trails through wood and cloister dark.
Silent my days, and still the nights
except for visitations by
what I trust is owl perched on roof,
drawn by mice skittering between walls
or what goes skittering in my brain.
It hunts through dreams where nothing’s safe
from flaying beak, not even hopes
I hid so well I can’t recall
myself. But there they are next day
in scat it’s strewn on pages—bits
of hair and bone I recognize
belong to me. They work their way
in lines until I draw curtains,
stoke fire, avoid window and strain
for word I came in hope to hear.
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