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Poetry

When my mother awakened me as a child,
her face was the entire room. Later, it was the bishop’s torso
that was the whole nave.

Confronting me was a blue density, the body
from the ribs up. In my memory I am unable to recover the face
or the words. I know there was a hand on my head.

I know I wished to be told that I would never die,
would love somebody else, could become good.
I wanted to lay my secret down—No matter

where I stand, I am doing harm
but there was no room in the bishop’s robes.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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