Durër’s Mother


It’s just your luck
to have reared a son
drawn to doing wrinkles
with charcoal.

You’ve got to be cock-eyed
to sit still
for such an attentive attempt
on your life.

You purse your mouth
because you suspect
his desire for truth
makes him anxious
to embellish your brow
with an extra wrinkle,
to extend the bridge
of your nose
just a smidgen,
to accentuate
beyond subtlety
the skeletal bulge
of your cheekbone.

And you remain deaf
to his request
that you tuck your scarf
behind your ear
so he can prove
how he can master
its difficult whorl.

---

Prepossession
after Jean Hey’s The Annunciation

Gabriel has better manners
than to glance toward Mary
when he hovers into her bedchamber.

And Mary’s not your common girl.
Literate, pious, simply elegant
in her house clothes, she’s already expecting
the news. Though half-tempted, she knows
it’s a gaffe to peek back at an angel.

If the haloed dove accompanying him
into her room surprises her,
she’s not letting on: enduring
a miracle requires decorum.

She must trust that lifting open hands
shows a fitting modesty.