Late at night, when shapes come shifting
and I wonder at ancient pasts embedded now
in outward trappings, the cause of Art,
my body lies blanketed, my head on a pillow,
medieval tune runs through the room,
Angelus ad virginem, and there stands, carved
in wood, upon a high pedestal,
my own, great, gray goddesshead.
The old wood cracks, its grain
a blush upon her cheek.
Aquiline, her nose, straight and fine.
Her hair bound up in gently coifed curls
stands high on her head:
in form and substance, some Athenian goddess.
What past is in that wisdom-face,
in the life she must have lived before
she became an ornament on a shelf?
Did she oversee a church?
Was she mistress in a ballroom?
Did she command a man’s heart?
I learn the truth as I longer stare,
as if all her secrets are in her fire-eyes.
Once, she stood serene, grainy-skinned,
soft her eyes pointed far out
over the wide, row-on-row,
from-blight-of-winter-to-brightest-spring
assemblage of resting places for the dead.
Queen she was, alma mater, kind mother,
over the land of those who ever sleep,
wide cemetery on a silent hill, keeping watch.
And yet, vulnerable is she, too,
and I just ever so mortal.
I sit at late of night.
My gaze so ever trained on the sight
of the peaceful, calm, and wise
eyes, the very portals of wisdom
of her, my gray goddesshead.
And I watch her in wonder, wondering
if she so watches out for me.
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