Who can plumb the alchemy

how their separate visages

began to coalesce alike

across the quiet breakfast table

through the evening kitchen chores

into the selfsame silhouette?

It was as if a mystic wrist

was patiently at work on both

with a single brush and palate.


The sharpness of his brow receded

with the lacing of her ways

surrounding his horizon,

and his lips broke more often

with the Eden freshness of her smile.

Even the arc of her determined cheeks

defined the spray of his own temple lines.

Most of all when looks locked

their eyes sparked the same blue flame

that opened up the universe to heaven

to the place where they were one.


So the young man surfaced in the north

growing daily more enchanting

in the milieu of his motherís grace

transformed by the numinous fusion

of her comely flesh and steely faith.

And when he strode from Galilee

his footsteps crossed the sky

like no other print upon the earth.



Jerome L. McElroy


†† *Accepted in Penwood Review (Spring 2009)