POETRY BOOK FOUR: Untitled Book in Progress
The Shepherdess

Alice plays at sacrifice
And rubs her little lamb,
Her chalice splayed in candlelight,
Her ritual in hand.

Alice moans with sacred lips,
She makes the secret signs,
Dances ‘round with fingertips
And stirs the holy wines.

Alice whispers tiny cries,
Her lamb begins to bleat;
The sacrifice on table lies,
Succulent and sweet.

Alice draws a sudden breath,
Her fingers in the fleece;
Her little lamb awaited death
Or miracle release.

Now Alice holds her lamb so still,
And still the knife is stayed;
She cannot bring the blood to spill –
The lamb runs off to play.

|| My Poetry ||