Menu

Poetry

————–Not the branches
we cut each
————–windy March
to hang with eggs
————–dyed red.
Not those
————–we bless
with palms
————–& smoke.
These arced
————–spines & split
limbs bud
————–through straining
bark. Backs
————–humped & bent,
bound. Does
————–God suffer
these husked
————–velvet knobs?
Stunted,
————–a wreath
of tumors.
————–Yes, he does.
Gather them
————–for procession,
for the table
————–& icon,
crown for
————–weeping Theotokos.


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

Michael Reminisces about the War

By

Amit Majmudar

Poem in July

By

Carrie Fountain

Three Roses

By

Anya Krugovoy Silver

At Terezín

By

Mark Jarman

Pin It on Pinterest