Noon. The first bell
scatters the pigeons.

Chapel of the Magi,
Mary’s ghost holds

the ghost of a baby
with all the tenderness

of her transparent arms.
Other women

walk still between
the columns of the cloister,

their stone faces
worn away, their thoughts

their own at last.
No one needs to know

what words hover
on the half-open lips

of this sister, whose right hand
clutches a book, while

her left draws close
the folds of her robe.