Category: Poetry

  • To the One Who Loves a Huguenot on St. Bartholomew’s Day*

    Thick ivy grasps your brick hiding place as iron   bells tell of blood spilt on cobbled stone.   You plead with eyes, lips, and hands that just   this once he might proclaim a name he does  not know. But his eyes are filled with   thin acceptance, lips will not release his answer, hands pull away his…