(Madonna del Parto, Piero Della Francesca)
It is a first time of seeing of blue, your dress.
You wear it as though you balance the bloods
in your heart,
your maternity dress. Your face so solemn and sad
at the thought of the birth of God,
that the youths beside you
have sprouted wings of belief.
They are closing the painted curtains.
You will take off your blue, blue dress,
lie down in History’s tent, and then…
But, alas, I know more than you. I wonder
if one of the youths will hang your dress
from a hook
as you push and pray on the floor. Poor, gifted girl.
I would like reach out my hand
and steal your blue dress.
I think it would suit me.