by Pavel Chichikov
This monastery built for hundreds
Holds no more than twenty –
Departed, others eat their feasts of paper
Banqueting on grave-mold dishes
Here the Blessed Virgin was before
But has no office to perform,
Watchful in the corner of two hallways,
Faces both directions on the upper floor
What a busy place this once was
But all the guileless cells are empty
Except the chambers of the novices
And twelve monks more make twenty
On retreat one time with her
I had no gift for meditation –
Prayer for me is ancient writing –
Hieroglyphic metaphor
Inside the hollow square
Spacious in abandonment,
Rows of rooms like robbed coffins,
The cloister in the open air
My soul prefers unseen retreats
The living refuge of the body,
Makes small niches for itself
Around the courtyard of a single heart
Listen, Lady, I am frightened
Because this house is huge and empty –
No, she says, it will be filled
Quite soon with more than ten times twenty
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.