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The Price of Light
by Pimone Triplett
Winner of the |
A VISION OF ST. CLARE Girl for whom the job came as a crack in rockface, the sudden tomb-slip turned all door. So that when she saw the lily spell itself there, seraphed on the wall of her father's house, she knelt down for the rapture, the rupture, and started to dig. Wall through which the dead in those days were carried for burial, delivered into, they prayed, His secrets held deeper than dirt. On the night of the rock loosening beneath her fingers to gravel, to seconds falling ordinary as hourglass, the little sands cinch-waisted, Palm Sunday, in Assisi, in the family house, 1212 A.D., she listened to the mice scurry and flirt in the hallway, then to the one dove's sound of silken pebbles tumbling in its throat. Turns out later they asked, for what, the mother and father, getting up for the scream, running to find her there in rubble, blood rivering steep down her arms by then, instant the wall fell, and first light entered, and she stepped clean through. |
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