poetry critical

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St. Theresa Margaret
Sister, she is kneeling at the bier,
burned and scarred at the skin of her neck,
a raw wound beneath her veil,
and not a man will turn
to look at her
but will not turn away
when each day she begs to enter,
brings dust in the door,
brings thin hands, rags,
the tenable calligraphy of sorrow.
My hands, too, are thin,
for artistry
my father said,
not carpentry and yet
i hammer out years
as ever he did as ever he did
and amen.
And you called me
sotto voce
you left the smallest violet
in the structures of my hand
and bade me touch
the veil of her utmost secrecy.
The veil of her secrecy.
You asked me
to make her well.

24 Feb 07

(define the words in this poem)

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For italics, place following code before line:
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^ oops. no period needed.
 — Nerva

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