It just spoke to me today for some reason. It could be because my sister is having surgery today. It could be because of the Madonna and Child and saints imagery.
Or maybe Saint Marty's just hungry for a baked potato.
Child Holding Potato
When my sister got her diagnosis,
I bought an airplane ticket
but to another city, where I stared
at paintings that seemed victorious
in their relation to time:
the beech from two hundred years ago,
its trunk a palette of mud
and gilt; the man with olive-black
gloves, the sky behind him
a glacier of blue light. In their calm
landscapes, the saints. Still dripping
the garden's dew, the bouquets.
Holding the rough gold orb
of a potato, the Child cradled
by the glowing Madonna. Then,
the paintings I looked at the longest:
the bowls of plums and peaches,
the lemons, the pomegranates
like red earths. In my mouth,
the raw starch. In my mouth, the dirt.
This is the closest I could come to Madonna, Child, and Potato |
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