Bede prays with folded hands, his tonsured pate
shines like a glass goblet in front of a fire.
She didn’t quite understand the Latin, but she got
the flavor. His love for God was no doubt greater than
his love for her. But what could a woman do?
I married a monastic philosopher.
Finally he disrobes.
Slides under the blankets. He leans in for a kiss.
The beard tickles her skin, it gets longer every year.
His hands have small calluses, dark patches
that are permanently stained from ink.
He writes so many letters – so many books.
He’s a learned beast. Before he takes me, a murmur
something that sounds like a rhyme.
I ask him to recite it for me:
My lover is so like the sea
her depths are plumbed by me
a swimmer in darkness, nude
while she aborning is renewed
like fair Venus so she rises
for our love/lust exercises.
…Bede my love, turn out the light.