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.