We never spoke her name
before she came

inside (wisest to spit
against a plague but never mention it)

and afterwards — when she presumed
to tiptoe through our rooms,

dragged fingertips across
nightstands to write in dust, or tossed

her body on the bed to creak
box springs — we couldn’t speak.

Some hands she left as stumps. Some hands she left
but took the tongues instead, her cut so deft

our throats still opened for another sigh.
She pried

the first pearl tooth
from baby’s mouth.

Before, we kept our homes unlocked, although
good prophecies had fled a year ago.

Next year, Jerusalem, we wept
into our cups. We slept

that night while she chewed
bitter herbs, gargled our few

leftover tears. We slept while she wiped blood
from lintel-frames, the fluid thick as mud.

She opened wide
the doors and let the Angel step inside.