Hildegard.
In what letters we cashed our nimble fingers?
Secret salve of a sister's voice, liquid, repetitive,
chill like night.
No ice but stones encasing us rhythmic weight of Candlemas,
Aria, matins.
I kept my thirds hidden on rich paper needlepoint whale inked.
What passion engraved should arise and I flush?
What floating heart murmur of a lover
hymn my sisters a vacuum to which I faint?
We all faint.
No remarkable mind tethered above,
but our own breasts now abound low.
Below.
Ecstasy of a third was an herbalist medicinal.
Lived in a box was an animal's intestine on fire.