lamb at the altar

He came with light in shaking hands,

a halo stitched from holy plans.

He knelt before my black-stained altar

and whispered, “Let your heart be mine.”

But I, in blackened veil and vow in ash,

was married long ago to death.

“Sweet lamb,” I said, “you’ve lost your way—

this church was built for those who stray.”

By Lisa Grisly Miller