Stained-glass girl

you should be an image in stained-glass windows

the same ones you trace with your eyes every sunday

while hymns echo in your ears, words

you've known so long you forget the meaning. 

or you belong in a portrait

hung beside a cross, bathed in darkness--

a girl of tragic beauty, people would think,

not knowing how

the sun catches your golden wisps 

of hair when you tilt your head back laughing, turning them

to spun silk. don't tell me you're not pure, because

it's the meaning of your name, because

if you're not pure, what am i?

i want religion, so sometimes i pretend i have it

when i talk to you on sunny days pinched by cold, and wonder at how

your voice sounds like church bells.

tell me a new hour has begun, and let the light

 turn your chipped nail polish

to stained glass.