morass

so now, again,
i must unbundle
the cold dying tendrils
of love be gone,
must lift my leaden heart
away from the morass
of silver vows and bodily fluids,
to grope thinly for
that place of forgiveness
lost in the vacuum
of your leaving.
betrayed yet again
by a child of god
who believes my spirit
is somehow less than hers
because my peace with that same god
looks only dimly
like her ceremonies, her rites, her ritual;
that my peace makes me somehow inferior, today,
unworthy of her love
even in small dimension,
after all this time.

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