A Painting of Saint Agnes
No one caught the beauty that went before
and after you: it fed the air like light,
invisible, life-giving. And your life,
it faded into darkness too, as might
a martyr unredeemed by others' faith.
And into view a painting of Saint Agnes
shimmers; she shares the small coals of your eyes,
that knack of distant gazing, as if kindness
was an amber where the passing life was held.
No surprise then that a dark glance can unman me
in corridor, on canvas; or those full
centuries the Church calls true and plenty
falls to a blank, when an unknown hand can scald
with paint and pain; and I, forever twenty.
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/v6/poetry/ted-mccarthy/interiors?s=675f55e239379fa64dd986704f75e122
[2] https://www.ablemuse.com/v6/fiction/thaisa-frank/enchanted-man?s=675f55e239379fa64dd986704f75e122