[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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment