Pieta, and: Confessions from an Apiary

Pieta

It's the virgin's hemline
she remembers
and a wedge of parmigiano

dunked in balsamic vinegar
so red she thinks of blood
or maybe chianti.

In the catacombs it's wine,
a mossy bone-smell
like crushed grapes,

but she comes back
to the lace
on the edge of the dress.

She could count every stitch –
honeycomb, open-fan, rose, heart,
a litany of virgin names

softer than any thread
spun from stone.
She doesn't speak of the dying

man's weight or the folds
where the dress is a cradle,

but of the virgin's height
if she could rise –

seven feet,
lace dripping over
those sandals like honey.

Confessions from an Apiary

Church candles must contain at least 51% (in maxima parte) beeswax, which is Pure, being made by virgin worker bees.

– The Catholic Encyclopedia

If I light one for the Queen
of Heaven, maybe the confession box will drip
with the 49% of me that's raw and unfiltered.

Domine, ne despicias me

Through the screen, he looks like a Kitchen God,
his red, paper body hung
above the flames of a thousand busy women.

Quamvis malus, quamvis indignus et peccator

There's always forgiveness for honey in my hip
pocket, for fingers that rub it on his lips.
He'll speak sweetly of me,
explain to the Jade Emperor
why I tumble
into any open flower
when warm days lift me over the threshold.

Illumina me et visita me

One night, I'll burn his paper body like a votive,
catch smoke on my long tongue,
smear the box of matches with nectar.