Enveloped in clouds
of drapery, the Virgin
perches between maimed
angels—pinions curved
like parentheses. Cherubim
polish scapular
feathers. A crescent
cradles her sandaled feet.
The tabernacled
multiverse: her realm,
her reign. Seraphs surround her
shoulders. With each thought,
a winged face alights.
Though the Virgin stands still, she’s
in constant motion.
Her robe sways. Legions
of tutelary saints comb
plumes. Seraphic fists
bloom with anguish. Strand
by strand, they hand them to her.
She slips open pain’s
ribbons, webs, nooses.
Her eyes tilt into hands’ work:
bouquets of knots.
