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.