Ad Mariam 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 her back. 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. Her eyes, however: blank. The Lady has a soul, yet it dies out between her nose and brow. Her figure teems with life, yet she presents as blind. 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 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.
0 Comments
Your comment will be posted after it is approved.
Leave a Reply. |
The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
This site uses cookies to deliver your best navigation experience this time and next. Continuing here means you consent to cookies. Thank you. Join us on Facebook:
October 2024
|