She kneels, covering his feet with her long hair,
this young and ruined woman weeping her regrets.
He takes her hand and she rises, forgiven;
the repentant beauty of her face fills his eyes.
Within the void that is the watching crowd
my hands ache, curving like claws
reach but touch nothing
but the reluctant sorrowing mystery.
So long ago, before time mortified my soul,
young I begged strangers for an imprint
that their hands their lips might mark my existence
that is now manifest in the inconsequentiality
of my cronehood, the lines of my face
the whiteness of my hair
my mottled hands misshapen fingers.
Now in imposed silence
hard earned hard learned
the question is mute, or moot.
Where is the absolution
for the inconsequential spirit?
And is the question of any consequence?
Shame and salvation.
I would gather her pain
to my betrayed and tender waste.
I would weep if I could
but can only sway
above her disarming, guileless grief.