Deborah Jean, I understand
that the walls of your room collapsed
and made a marriage tent.

When others are naked at midnight
with a sword in their hands
they can begin to shake their faces- not before.

The wind is in the red silk
but it only carves an ocean
of the heat above my head.

You, as I, stood to face the bed
dragging death's dowry from your ears
and sapphires dripping at the neck.
Come to the altar sweating like ancestry

and beheld

the inevitable lay drunk
across the couches at its edge.
The armies cry death! on either side of the encampment Deborah Jean,
And the sword is the coolest thing beneath this pendulous red gleam.

And if you too found Holofernes lacking
and the stains of consummation lay violent - a red handprint across your chest
and the divine mandate clung - and your heart felt yet unblessed and

Nothing Nothing Nothing that ever sent
you to the red tent
would show its face again -

Be blessed by me at least.

All the sanctity I have
is yours.