She is completed only when I kneel.
From the blue alcove she leans over me
suspended by the grace of God (or maybe
concrete nails), voluptuous in stone,
all wind-blown folds and curls.
She wants my hand.
She’s reaching for it, palms curving like mine,
the tender tension bending her fingers,
the right extended toward me, then the left
directing to the tiled heaven at
She’s ample. Fleshy. Skirt hiked up
toward her strong thighs—an interrupted motion
on her way to wash, or plant, or touch.
One shoulder drops, exposed. She wears no bra;
her breasts fall full, as subject to the march
of time and mothering as mine.
however: blank. The Lady has a soul,
yet it dies out between her nose and brow.
Her figure teems with life, yet she presents
Are we meant not to bond with her?
Is she merely a conduit, a bridge
that rises on the hour, every hour,
to propel us sinful vehicles
past her mantilla’d head into the wall
where we might be squashed flat but, man,
the ride was worth it?
I believe her more
than infrastructure. She wants me. I, her.
And if I stand now, clear the kneeler, clamber
Up the stone, I know it will feel warm.
Julia Rocchi writes prose, poetry, prayers, and picture books. She holds an MA in Writing (Fiction) from Johns Hopkins University. Her work is forthcoming in Mulberry Fork Review, and her poetry has appeared in the anthology Unrequited: Love Letters to Inanimate Objects. Julia lives in Arlington, Virginia, with her husband.
The Ekphrastic Review
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