For Amy

For Amy, whose mother is mad

Why are you so quiet?
Has someone converted you,
lulled you with incense and
water tasting of marble,
to pure rustling of linen,
a supernatural chastity?

I don't believe it. We slept
on the church lawn one afternoon
lazy in May, and the sun
shone on us and on the virtuous alike.
That afternoon, I could forgive
St. Columban's as it reared silver
against the blue sky, and the other
idle students compared tanned forearms.
We can't be tempted by purity.
So what keeps you?
I think your mother locked you up,
tower or cloister,
someplace I will have to besiege
and serenade.

Don't be fooled. They can't
absolve you or damn you,
no matter what your mother says.
Come here and let me hold you,
hold you, I miss you.
Don't hurt without me.