Madonna*

 

At the foot

of the cross

her face redraws

the scars of sacrifice.

Sorrow soaks her

to the ground

like a bended S.

 

Brackish with her

first-bornís blood,

her tears shower

earth for hours,

laving bone-dry

landscapes lost

since the dawn of time

until the slope

of human hope

finds bedrock footing

in her steely yes.

 

The axis

of the world

tilts the aerial

of earth toward home

when she rises

with the sun

from the chrism plash.

 

 

            Jerome L. McElroy

           

                                                            *Accepted in Sunstone (Nov. 2004).