after Mechthild of Magdeburg
Beyond the cloak, they call
me dove. Love draws
my head to her lap. She seeks
to remedy my hair’s
tangling. She sings soul so far
from your festering body, who has
cut out your tongue?
Could it be the holy scythe from which
all creatures were wrung?
Love is so silly. She knows
my tongue. It runs like a ribbon
stolen by the wind! Against her
breast, I am born again and again.
I seek a moon above my lips,
this milk instead of sin!
Beyond the cloak, the soul
so bold when begged
to turn the cheek—my God for once
look at me: I suffered as you
asked—ears pink
as the ewe, throat soft as a
turtledove’s blue—
I am your bride who burns
like water, who cannot forget
the taste of sky.