Stained-Glass Girl

you should be an image in stained-glass windows 

the same ones you trace with your eyes every sunday 

while hymns echo in your ears, words 

you've known so long you forget the meaning. 

or you belong in a portrait 

hung beside a cross, bathed in darkness – 

a girl of tragic beauty, people would think, 

not knowing how 

the sun catches your golden wisps 

of hair when you tilt your head back laughing, turning them 

to spun silk. don't tell me you're not pure, because 

it's the meaning of your name, because 

if you're not pure, what am i? 

i want religion, so sometimes i pretend i have it 

when i talk to you on sunny days pinched by cold, and wonder at how 

your voice sounds like church bells. 

tell me a new hour has begun, and let the light 

turn your chipped nail polish 

to stained glass.