← v1n2, Fall 2002
Poetry · Volume 1, Number 2

The Black Madonna

This madonna carries no baby, wears

no veil. In the crook of her arm

sways a cracked leather purse

hefty as a club. The print

of her dress climbs with

bearded irises and her eyes are

fierce and bloodshot—she's

had no sleep in days, or maybe she drinks.

I hold my ears,

but her voice burning through my hands

is a torch lighting up

the place of the skull.

She's telling the trees

everything: how I cling to what's in front of me

and keep missing the point,

like Francis when he hears a voice

Rebuild my church

carting all those stones.

The sun ascends over her shoulder

while she pretends to disappear.

I take my first gulp of wildflower air.

I am shaking like Jesus in the garden,

quivering to be passed over.