I take up my embroidery

I stoke the fire

So carefully laid.

 

I walk to church

My prayers are said

I banish all desire.

 

Yet in my room

Passions consume.

 

Scraps of paper

Barely owned

Scrawled on

By my perfect hand.

 

My poem.

 

In all my life

Scant six

Have seen the light of day.

Yet I know where

I’ve hidden them.

 

Beloved poems!

Hundreds!

All set out for

My Lord

My Lover

and

My death