For S.
in the end the Lady
when she came to your metal bed
with her hawk feather cape
was dressed in practical scrubs
she told me gently and firmly
I must leave you
since then at night
I see you often pacing
across the hills
your old body held
like a shed snake skin
in your left hand triumphant
as St. Bartholomew
in Michelangelo’s Last Judgement
while your right hand holds
doubled in the way of dreams
the long hair braided like wheat
of your own second
severed head
beard newly trimmed as you grin
beneath your cat mask
perfectly balanced in Crane Stance
your long red and black
lace skirt flapping
like wings at your ankles