By Rebecca Poole
A RELIGION OF distance, of manners, of reactions
No Pietá these two: draped across the folds of her gown,
they make an unstable image, a diamond, a tear,
out of the painting, this pale Mary pulls back
Maybe shes just listening, back to hearing those angels.
her tapered fingers fluttering at her fragile breast,
how the oblivion in the mothers guarded mouth
shes a disproportion in blue. Balanced on patrician toes,
But why this perspective? Why dont her attendants scream,
Wont anyone catch the baby, save the Savior? And why
snake shapes, inclined heads? Maybe its just a phase.
Curious how these figures remain frozen, aware