Mary Magdalene, a Tree
after the wooden sculpture by Donatello
He carved
me ragged: My
wooden gown hangs jagged
on my frame. Supposed sins drip
from my
limbs; tears
pierce soil. Regrets
grow to seedlings: no &
not. I can’t cleave myself from shame,
can’t speak.
my truth’s
sparse leaves. Tourists
gaze at me from guidebooks.
Alone, I stand in this sunless
corner.
Phantoms
of recall caw
mercilessly as night
floods the city’s stone streets. Rumors
spread &
distort
my past. My words
can’t smite them. I remain
in this Florentine niche, leafless.
Loveless.
—Presence 2017