The Worshiper

He carried a torch for her, all these years
kept it burning somehow, he said, through long December days,
fueled from her paintings & the memory of
their walk down the Rue Mouffetard, and the knowledge
that she still wears his scar.
Beneath it, like an ancient star,
they stand. He
recognizes wild-eyes, but she can see
other changes mirrored on his face.
Not enlightenment.
Her journey through blackness,
with no-one to light the way,
no-one to crush the serpent or weather the storms of memories -
this
he does not see. The light is not strong enough to illuminate
the other scars at throat & back & blade.
Time tempers, time changes -
She wishes his torch more brightness
or more darkened shadow-caves.
No escaping from the knowledge now:
the slow minutes in Putnam County Jail
bought her bravery
at the expense
of
his Olympic love.