PIETA

A woman cradling a dead man. That much
anyone human knows. That he is god,
or that she is his mother may seem odd
to most. The marble’s cold and hard to touch

But looks like tender flesh. A hammer’s blows
Shattered it once. Bystanders stole the bits
As holy relics or mementos. It’s
great they rebuilt it, and yet no-one knows

where many of the pieces went. They carved
Her new nose from her unseen back; cement
restoring beauty. Faithless, I consent
to love such statues still. I am not starved

by losing faith, but rather I rebuild,
as human, love and beauty worship killed.

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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