Sister Elizabeth
And six other nuns were
Standing huddled in front
Of a wild blazing log
Fire in the common
Room, warming their frozen
Hands and chilled bodies from
The February frost
And cold; pushing from their
Fingers the biting pains,
The nipping teeth, the dull
Aching limbs; and sensing
The ease, the pleasure of
Being so close to warmth
Again; each looking in
The flames, each seeing their
Bridegroom, the Crucified,
There, each nun seeing a
Different face in the flames,
Different staring eyes, and
A different kind of love;
Sister Elizabeth
Knew that her Bridegroom was
The one with the blue eyes
And the Paul Newman smile,
Who had kissed her once in some
Bar in Manhattan, and
Whispered her name across
The years in her dark cell,
As she tossed and turned in
Her lonely bed, waiting
For one more tender kiss.
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