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.