After Hildegard of Bingen
We fill our eyes when they are closed. We dig our fingers into the crevices of the flamed grain of the oak table in search of crumbs and pebbles of sand nested there. We hear the songs that come from these nests, clear and crisp as Ordo Virtutum, a music for the open mouths of Medieval women.
We still struggle with our woman-soul. We will fill our empty arms. We will fill our empty bellies and our empty mouths. Ordo Virtutum will fill our empty ears. Our ears are always empty. We will never listen. We do not listen. We are women; we do not listen.
We empty our eyes when they are open. We will watch a ring and a ring weighed and bound. We will take and give these rings. We want the flint and fossil of the voice, but we know the voice is clear and crisp. The voice echoes like a rocking cathedral. The voice echoes like Amiens and Chartres.
We want a house as large as a cathedral. We want a house as dark and cold as a cathedral. We want a house as empty as a cathedral. We will fill our mouths when they are empty.
We will fill our mouths with him and him and him. We will fill our mouths with the Father and the Son. We will taste the sharpness of the slaughter.