Saint Rita

Tonight the sky sagged as your arms reached for empty space. My bedroom whispered like wheat to my sleepless eyes. My icons pulled me into embraces -- St. Rita, her eyes rolling, her arms slit up, braided my hair as I wept. "Oh the things I have seen," she said. She was dressed all in black. My forehead leaked on the nightstand as the lamp offered muted condolences. Your thoughts broke off from you and swam in the strained veins of my eyes. The sky moved for you, my dear, but I had only the weary movements of my bedroom and a widow saint with hands of frost.