Four Poems Contemplating Icons, by Michelle Matthees

The Iconostasis at Sveti Spas in Ohrid, Macedonia, photo by author.

Ohrid 

The angles of the alleys were impossible for the old man’s wheelchair. Never mind the cloudy cobble. Sitting before the orange icon, its non-voluptuous paint applied with rhythmic regularity, he asks me, “How old is the church?” Once, I mistook the Greek letters behind Pantaleon’s head for numbers. “I don’t know. Maybe 14th century?” I say, my limbs stretching into ridiculous angles. I could be caught in my own representation, forced to fulfill its aesthetic needs, becoming nothing but hints as the years pass, a suggestion of how to look at the light, where to send your eyes while beneath you the wooden dragons twirl.

Icon of St. Marina Killing the Devil (Russia) 1711

Marina of Ohrid

Who is this woman going after the devil, holding him by his orange ears? Who smithed her hammer? Was it forged especially for this purpose, or when it comes to thrumming the devil will any hammer do? 

The 18th century must have been a tough one for her to be so angry, for it to come to this. Was she successful? At the end did the devil resemble a lizard run over by a car? Did the hammer hit him, his head like ice cracking? Or did he grasp it like a fresh breeze, a wasp’s sting? 

Is it true she was raised by a governess and ate only table scraps? Is it true she was triumphant? Some say she was a local who never left the tall town walls, each turn a facet on a jewel glued to a leash that God kept jerking.

Icon of St. George. St. George's Church in Staro Nagoričane Monastery (Macedonia) 13th century

Sofia

All this nervous smoking makes me nervous. Isn’t anyone ever allowed to finish a goddamn cigarette? The women are always wiping a surface with a cloth, white spray bottle in hand. It’s filth or purity, some old Christian trick. A blue siren cuts through my view from my hotel: someone else’s emergency, and the pulse of the green man saying it’s okay to walk begins again. Above it all flies a pigeon who speaks thirteen languages and white splotches of its wings keeps the clouds captive. Each smoked cigarette has six wings. Each spray bottle is about to be pierced by St. George’s dagger from my window which lacks a frame.

The Annunciation, by Fra Angelico (Italy) 1440-1445

The Impossible Move

She is so handsome, finger sized. She lands on a black square. She mesmerizes a pawn, knocks a morose rook, and kneels before the king. It’s easy to tell who the king is because he is taller than everyone else, and he has that thumbish, flat cross on his head. She extends a hand from under her wing, fingers soft but definitive. The king is about to interrupt her as she begins to speak. 

He’s used to holding the floor, and his queen is furious. He doesn’t know that he’s going to bear the child of God, that he’ll have to quit his job and return to work later, part-time, his power tactics obsolete. 
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The wind is shifting as she lays down her shield. She extends her hand to him as he stands with his back against a fragrant wall of cypresses. Then, because she is a woman, she pauses. She gives him the choice.

Michelle Matthees

Michelle Matthees lives in Duluth, Minnesota. Michelle has published two books of poetry, Complicated Warding, about institutionalization circa 1900, and Flucht, about Eastern Europe and adoption. She has been awarded numerous grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board, The Jerome Foundation, and other arts organizations. More information about her work can be found at www.michellematthees.com.