I saw my first

Weeping stone angel

On a trolley, at the morgue.

Hair swept back, romanesque,

The face of a weathered noble

Wrapped in her white shroud

Translucent as alabaster, carved

With intransigence and loss,

Etched with pride and prejudice.

A presence that made

You stop and stare.

 

The last time I saw her

She lay open to the world,

Violated and dismembered.

Such gaping sacrilege

Provoked within me

Outrage and melancholy.

Still I recall best, I choose

To remember, I see

Almost every day

Stone angels about me

And weep a little at their fate.