Her cheeks were marked, blazoned
with the glory of heaven or seared
with the fires of hell.
Her duality, her sincerity
to sin, and her mask
finally broken to lay bare
the truth, shattering and flaking
like dried bits of mud.

When the sky was fire
with eternal sunset--
when the flames burned
and my body ran
waxy, made smooth
as wet clay thrown and molded
by a potter's hands--
and my shoulder blades tingled
with ruffling pinnions beneath the skin,
feathered wings formed again
and my ignoranced snapped
and crumbled.

But I was quickly battered,
my wings broken and torn
by rocks in combed,
bloody clumps. The feathers,
fell away like leaves
in a strong wind. Tissue
clung and then melted
until the framwork, left intact
remained in aweful arcs,
gleaming obsenely ivory.
The markings of my wounds
gleamed black--sun-spot tattoos
giving testimony
to my rebirth.

Beaten back, I still would
not run. Now I held
the fire inside me.
That melting force--
that refiner's terrible flame--
was now mine, pliable,
and molded for her
destruction.

Her blood, warm gloves
running over my hands
as I snapped the halo and thorns
together--
my awakening had come
in this grotesque baptismal.
On that day, I remember
I was free.