The Plague

Madonna without her child, she was no Titian or Raphael,
Simply Our Lady of the Hebrides. Less of a person and more,
A crushed piece of old linen used to clean up a spill.
Childless mother Mary, the hope of a halo was long ago torn,
Or drowned by all that she let lap upon her praying lips.
If I’m not careful, the hole in me again fills with her clawing,
I feel myself sliding against the cross of her inquisitor’s grip.
For who the vodka auto da fe? Whose heretic heart was she outlawing?
Three weeks she haunted our house as a spirit, she could be sweet,
Like plum brandy. Or as dark and bitter as sun-forsaken grape.
Each hour was sacrificed as with open lips each bottle she’d greet,
Until through the curtains of her locust disease she made her escape.
Back on our doorstep, from its sheath her unsuckled breast she drew,
Mary, oblique skin in obsidian black. Bare in blue.