"Magdalene II" After the painting Noli me Tangere by Giulio Romano
by Leonore Wilson She was made of a body that cried for itself, an island with the beauty of understanding and of nostalgia pleading dove of muscle, of luminous roughage; think of her as your sister at the edge of the field where pink and yellow flowers toss their manes, where the slippery trail calls out your name, where your bones knock together, fingerhold, foothold, sinking into the fat grassy hummocks, for she knows the darkness like a nugget of sap, weightless almost like the butterfly’s loping, how she lingers at the cave in the few trees, repenting through madness toward death, how her mind clings to the singing of birds and grasshopper as she kneels down, idle and blessed not knowing what to do with the wilderness inside her since he has gone, died too soon, often bowing down to love her when everything was wonderful, palpable and redemptive crushing all her foolishness like the sea whose edges have rubbed long against the world. |