on the seventh day
the butterfly wing pages
covered in holy script
would wrap around
an insidious tongues sermon
pressing her heart to confess
to dark watchful eyes
its ungodly shape

fingernail made moons
bled her supplication
colored the pale, deaf air
with a desperate repentance
too garish and late
for them to ever deem her
worthy of being saved

along her raw fragile skin
temptations filth still crawled
sin too scarlet to be washed
to pay forgiveness' price
her body was to be tithed
the crimson covered over after
by her favorite wool white
Sunday Best dress