03 May 2009

LotS: The Weeping Madonna Speaks

[Magazine clipping, nail polish]

The Weeping Madonna Speaks

This is not the kind of miracle you ask for.
Still in this statue, pushing blood through wood,
I cannot close my eyes or raise a hand to wipe
the stains from my blue and white. I used to wear
red but you have forgotten my flesh, made me
Artemis, Vesta, Tonatzin. But I bled at his birth,
shed these tears as he dies, displayed--carved from,
crossed onto, a tree. They have cut the lines well:
the nose and hipbones are my boy's, hanging
there still. What you call grace is only grief.

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