The guidebook directed us to a nunnery
where no one spoke English.
Nearby, a quarry
was blasting for granite,
working to free
buildings and walls from the rockery
of rubble. In a dark chapel
a nun, almost silent, mined the air
making a statue of breathing and prayer.
Heroic sisters! They are the quarry
of a spirit that hunts them.
Love is predatory,
best met with stillness
and passivity.
The smashed heart is its own safety.
Water flows, soft, from the rock.
Minds and minerals submit to their loads:
cold stones that women kiss explode.