Found in Willow Springs 76
The saint girl was wretched with desire. Even a slice of cracked wheat bread tasted like sex, though she didn't know to hear her throbbing tongue. She thought the discomfort was a perched holy spirit. She wanted less and less-even the clicking of old men's checkers was heat. Thank God her inner monologues were all rosaries or she might have heard herself say I want to fornicate those checkers.
The saint girl thought she would be saint forever, or until she wasted away to saint girl, spirit and reliquary of. She woke up one morning, despising the ribbon in her hair and the dry river of thirst running through her. She woke tired of her infestation of devils, most especially the vagabond house guest who called himself Socrates and invited his way in. He peppered her with Can we not assume? and What of? and Explain to me more clearly.
And maybe S. meant it when he said he could not follow her meaning. Maybe she had no meaning. Maybe to be left unspoken was the ideal outcome for ideal forms.
She only wanted to be lonely in that pleasant and thoughtful way loneliness sometimes feels. Virginity is one way to get people out of your house. Sex is another. The sky turning blue and blue and bluer still as you forget there is someone above you or below.
