Menu

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.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

Three Roses

By

Anya Krugovoy Silver

Night and Chaos

By

Mario Chard

Tentatively, Religion

By

Christian Detisch

A Minor Fallen Angel

By

Amit Majmudar

Pin It on Pinterest