She thought the education of the soul
Came all at once, as it did
For Saul, lucky boy, trailed
By lightning until the right moment,
Crawling out from under his horse
With a new name and profession.
But daily the weather comes around,
And he who claims to love her
Is still there in the morning
Buttering toast, calling her yet
Another nonsensical name.
She thought the battles of the self
Were fought out in the old high style
And disposed of, leaving her
Dappled with virtue.
But she is regularly infected
By a mild self-love, a would-be martyr
Who dreams of the executioner’s knife
And wakes reverencing heathen gods
In her safe bed.
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