Prayer

And the twist of the curl at her neck,
triumphing over all else, to finish the task
of burying her lover, liar,
mud, a fleck on her cheek, harmonies in her head
urging her on, the only way she can do this, clutch
the shovel, wipe her brow.

Her head low to the ground, colourless,
drawn in at the waist. No one else will
do this, and its not consecrated earth, little
but a few words uttered from hers, it becomes unholy,
hitching up her skirts, staggering in the sulfurous
air. The way she bends her wrist, her palm open to his,
offering him grace.