A saint like Dorothea cannot live
Like you and me, within the strict borders
Of moralistic towns, among the give
And take of fast-wagging tongues and fingers.
Her standards set her apart: she's annexed
By invisible rules whose deep roots clutch
Into the bedrock of religious texts,
Whose realities she can almost touch.
A saint like Dorothea cannot die
Like me and you, among her delusions
And her dough, among relatives' wry
Smiles and indifferent institutions.
She's always the last of her species, linked
Tenuously to life, all but extinct.
