'You to presume to teach. Of course, I know
You're mother's Sunday scholar, aren't you? Go.'
She slammed the door behind her, clutching skirts.
'Anna.' He heard her bedroom latches thud.
He learned at last how bitterly love hurts;
He longed to cut her throat and see her blood,
To stamp her blinking eyeballs into mud.
'Anna, by God!' Love's many torments make
That tune soon change to 'Dear, for Jesus' sake.'
He beat the door for her. She never stirred,