The women stand
by the eight bronze unicorns
named Numbers, Deuteronomy,
Job, Psalms and Isaiah
that guard a temple carved
from sheer cliff
rising from the sea surge.
They lean on a marble ledge
high above sea surge,
their robes sheer
in the sun.
My sight cuts keen
as their voices
keen keen keen
with unholy alleluia
to hone my desire
to points beyond
blood and flesh.
I see what they relish,
what their limned fingernails
cut like razors through gauze:
the dead, torn bodies,
the men and women
they reap.
I leap.
They rip, rend,
eviscerate and devour.
They release me
into word and song.
