12.4.99

Taking into the temple, the place of woman, of Isis or Mary. St Helen. This one, broken down. Threw her self out in an unsuccessful abortion, crashing down and slapping over ridges, gorging through the shallow valley out to sea. Ruined herself, killed herself not quite: she lives; her uterus bare and molten, swelling despite. Here none are spared the ice of desolation, the stunted and growing ever more slowly, the grey, interminable grey of her blood. It was so beautiful!: she crumpled in whiteness with the resurrection at her feet the color of green tea powder, and the trail of liquid ever trickling through that stretched canal to the sea. She killed herself an untraversable moat, and it was from that shore we bowed to her in piety.

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