He, slow, searching,

masks intent with ambiguity..

She, honorable, unsure,

brushes aside the doubt..

He, holds her job

in cath o lic

community..

He, rebuffed, presses on

for other entrance..

She, confused, seeks safe

harbor in the pack..

His stories stink the halls,

hisses others' slights..

She, haunted in isolation,

shudders as the pack turns..

He, crushes rich cloth,

finds a bent thread,

boldly declares the bolt unfit..

She, weaver of bright patterns,

hurled from her loom,

is left to die..

He, sequestered when the surgeon

sears her breast,

forced entry complete..

She, laughter of the phoenix,

rises through the smoke,

carries loom and yarn..

Honest, Honest Iago

still lurks to slash

another Desdemona..

July 1994