what if she never wanted
your pedestals of rosy clouds
the apotheosis of cornflower blue and
the gold roses at her feet, the myrtle and the lilies sweet
painted by the mystic painters.
Our Lady among cherubs
and the visionary
coronated by angels
or anunciated
amid the Italian cypresses
and the archways
in a formal view.
her name was Mary.
she bore Christ when
she was very new.
the spring tide in her heart
was God alone and she loved wildflowers,
the sun. her household.
to be the only one up at dawn.
the air after the rains.
why would she need
to be robed with such complications
to be lifted into starry names.
to become the subject of hymns.
she bore Christ.
she was there with him where he was
abandoned
to the agonies we all feel
to such a lesser degree. Rilke’s angel
cried: “Thou art the Tree.”
but I am the one my mother called Mary.
why would you call me queen of the sea
she would have wondered mystified
at their veneration, o Ivory tower…
mystified in the museums if
time travel had been granted her.
reticent in the cathedrals.
anywhere else instead
she would have said
I wanted to be to ponder the least thing.
why do they call me foreign names
I was only his mother.
I wanted a quiet space;
to be at home, to marvel at the small graces
at table, or sweeping the floors.
his little words at the beginning
honey on the page.
time to think what life had been or would have
without the rage of those who despised Him
who only lived for Love;
with Him so suddenly removed
and then, with John.
what did I need with the glorias
and the kingdom comes
when I was under his star.
my son, my Son.
mary angela douglas 7 october 2019
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