Mary entered
like a silken paraclete
and spoke in tongues
(Comment allez-vous?)
with lips
as red as early apples.
While music burned
and night
bled into day
her eyes said
I have my pride
and don't need pity.
In a room grown
cold as an epiphany,
her hands made
trembling love
to the ghost
of a cigarette.
Then she paused.
As if waiting
for the first stone
to be thrown.
