Sheer as an Anchorite
Sacred to St. Bartholomew
He came, a supplicant. His votive flame
Was love. He held it up above the black
Of curls he worshiped. Purity, not shame,
Is what he had to proffer, nothing slack
Or stained, because the black was utter. Up
He held his gift, unwavering and strong,
Intense as death. He held it in the cup
Of palm and fingers. No cathedral song
Was needed. Light and heat and flesh and sin
Were more than reverent. They were absolute,
As absolute as martyrs lacking skin.
He held nothing Lucifer could pollute.
The hair upon that body and that head
Were holy. Curls summoned wine and bread.