← v1n2, Fall 2002Poetry · 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 bloodshotshe'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.
