"sew an old torn glove of a cloud overhead to hide the moon’s belly"
A poem of my own for today.
Angel Holding a Candle, Unknown Swiss Workshop, lindenwood, 1513-32.
Intention
by Abriel Louise Young
My heart hammers alone in its medieval flood plain.
Where is my maker? My hearth? My flame?
I remember the kind woodworker with calloused hands.
He turned me out of a fallen linden trunk with chisel & gouge.
My face was cupped,
my curls were coiled by his wide fingers.
I felt touch.
The wind billows rough linen between my legs.
I’m a sexless spiral helix human form with no kin.
They say ”angels” are without pride, lacking pronouns
or possessions, without passions.
I dispute it: I hold one feeling hotter
than all others.
I am hungry to help,
no matter if it shatters me.
Ready, eager—unbittered.
True, I’m just one among many
witnesses, anonymous, voiceless, not
even a scribe. No sanctum access.
Sworn to silence, to hold my one candle
here, yet still I yearn, I pang.
I interfere.
Is my soul a lever
to keep God from having a seizure?
There is no worthwhile ruining.
I can't attend scenes
impassively despite my fear.
My arms are wood—
with three more branches
I could rough out a room with a dirt floor,
invite refugee mothers to crawl in,
escape falling bombs, poison gas,
bring the infants tied to their backs
with bright cloth into quiet.
I’d sew an torn blue glove of a cloud overhead
to hide the moon’s belly,
hum so they feel safe
to feed their little babies
with their bodies,
to participate.
I still have a message for life.
If granted permission
(or against edict, if need be) I will lift gravity.
so those who are most dispossessed
drink first from the holy breast.
published first in an earlier version in The Map of Every Lilac Leaf: Poets Respond to Work in the Smith College Museum of Art.
Creative Invitation
Consider—What is your deepest intention?
Beautiful.