The Young Martyr
Wrists bound with narrow rope
as one binds a lamb’s quarters before 
spring slaughter.

Lost, her aquamarine dress,
its gossamer layers
sinking through foamless cold,

platinum-tipped waves,
her red, vegetal curls pulling apart
into a fine net

in which nothing is caught
except for her face, which is dry,
dry as the cape of the man

almost hidden on the cliff—
bearded, arms raised to his sides as if
he will leap in and save her.

But this is not that story.
She must braid into these depths
and not be forgiven.
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