The body delights in its own travail,
both teased and tortured by a pulsing strain
with claws of pleasure resembling pain.
She prophesies but cannot pierce the veil;
she approaches but cannot breach the pale.
The end she sees and struggles to obtain
with breathless whisperings both profane
and full of God, both powerful and frail;

these gentle curses make and mar the script.
Blushing with half delight and half despair
her whimpers catch on pressed and purpled lips
while she draws fitful clenched half-breaths of air
and, silent, begs the coming moment to eclipse
with frenzy the unbroken rhythm of that prayer.