Terza rima...or approximation thereof

A friend recently accused The Divagator of false advertising, pointing out that my summary over there on the right-hand side claims to offer up terza rima on this blog, but alas, there is no terza rima to be found. To remedy this, please find below a short poem titled “The Convert,” and which I wrote about 12 years ago. And on a related note, The Divagator’s first-annual terza rima contest is still open to contributors for two more weeks!

Last summer, I decided it was time
For three gods and a wife. A supplicant,
Filled with a sense of the original crime,

With the keen eyes of every visible saint
Whetting their blunt knives on the trunk of my heart,
I charged my lungs with the air of self-restraint,

Swore off the booze, the pills, the darling skirts
Pendulously counting down the work week.
Painful…but such is life when one converts.

For endless months thereafter, sickness shook
My teeth like cubes of ice in a glass balloon;
The nurses labeled me a textbook-

Case of delirium, but still, when the sun
Is a deep red in the corner of the city,
The wings of giant birds come undone

And fall upon the house. I know then, rightly,
That night has come, that all the songs in dreams
Are played in silent chords as some almighty

Hand drops a tuning fork in vacant rooms
The body used to inhabit. It vibrates the windows,
Rattles the frames and doors, and thus resumes

The rite of self-surrender. Rebels, outlaws,
Traitors. . .each one discovers the smallest shaft
Of darkness in the constant heart and withdraws.