by E.G.N. Lafleur
Margery Kempe at the Second Vatican Council, inflamed
by the Holy Ghost.
Ghost, not spirit, as the reformers say.
She says it the old way, unreconciled,
a sob ripping up.
The Holy Ghost’s work in her, she thinks.
Margery, laywoman, looking down on the cardinals from her perch in the gallery.
They are the dross of gold, banks of crimson silk,
the men who do not understand.
There will be wrath, a white bone, a new name given.
She has been examined by her bishop, a kind condescension.
Certified non-heretical, only
struck by the spirit of the age.
Struck, stuck. stuck with a small knife, a thorn.
Blood seeping from the wound.
They talk about the spirit of the council, after, like it is a simple thing.
She that hath ears, hear she, what the spirit saith to the churches.
The spirit saith? Think flames, an angel above the assembly,
a hair shirt of the soul.
Brightness, agony, a phosphorous explosion
blood from Christ’s breast drunk from his cupped hand.
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E.G.N. Lafleur is a poet, essayist, homesick Anglo Catholic, and trainee Social Services Worker living in London, Canada. She has poetry in Feed Lit Mag, Pinhole Poetry, Wrongdoing Mag, Deathcap, and Sage Cigarettes. She writes to work out the questions raised in her academic work on medieval English history and literature. You can find her on Twitter @egnlafleur and her essays in Earth & Altar and on Substack at egnlafleur.substack.com.
Image: “The Eyes Light Up” by Sarah J. Sloat
ID: A collage including small white waves on a green background, “Plan” on a blue background, “THE EYES LIGHT UP” beaming from a small red circle, a woman in black, pink roses, and green circles of thread. The border is bright blue.
Psaltery & Lyre 