The painted monasteries of Bucovina.
The impossible blue of Voronet, called
Voronet blue. Pitch dark night, the azurite
had faded in the outer walls. Loud ruckus
in the back of the building, at the cemetery.
Nuns chattering, clanking, digging, for vegetables
we thought, a grave as we found out.
The dead nun’s sisters take it in stride and celebrate,
she is with her beloved, or at least on her way.
The monastery is still open, so we go inside.
It is dark, the kids bump something in the aisle,
the dead nun. In her coffin, one last night of prayer.
Before her sisters come for her,
grab her and lower her into the fresh, cool ground.
Not unlike planting a colossal bulb
they’ll never live to see sprout.
First appeared in Trampoline – A Journal of Poetry, March 2026