Virgin Vault

On convent walls,
     written against all gods,
fall-out thought-trails
     purple-pressed lips kissed-off.

Swallows all wail
     through the grate for sisters
to stop making
     awful calls—lips fall on
each bar; hit hard
     with such unsettling haste.

Quick to consume,
     swallowing its dread light,
sisters follow
     sullen moons sweating through
their linen tombs;
     pleading to bleed on out

their whores’ pension—
     failing to mention what
absent bridegroom
     had them here imprisoned.