Dark Night, Where is Your Daughter?

The little world is torn. The big
things stay put. At the election, only one

alternative: the woman. She did not
represent any danger, a woman.

From a man’s rib, with all that it implies.
A reputation to cleanse with blood. Her inner compass:

for durability. Resembling Soutine’s “Eva,” she was raised
to have her heart in her mouth, mouth behind bars, eyes behind lids.

No goodbyes, kilometers of tears. A kiss to the Covid-positive
parents through a car window. To her brother — via a telephone

screen. In the wintery-white orthodox Cathedral of All Saints,
which, she later learned, holds authoritative communions

and grants absolutions, a woman asked to be blessed
for a sudden departure. The silver-haired priest, with a wealthy beard

and fatherly voice, listened to her story
and called the police.