ManicDDaily

Medieval Mother And Child (Somehow Carved)

I don’t know why it is
my babe’s a little man,
nor why he stands so perched
upon my arm and hand–

nor why I mayn’t be touched
by any other,
only that when he suckles,
he’s certain babe enough–

and man.  Then, that my breast
turns round as the sky’s sun,
hard and sturdy-stemmed,
in his fine-fingered palm,

as a pomegranate;
I fear then–oh, I fear—
that such rubied pride will burst
in fountained drops near

crimson, prisming the air
in their first flood,
but darking to a sluice
of side-slid blood,

our every round gullied
by its rivulets.
No babe can be so held
as to tourniquet

that flow; nor arms so braced
to hold off sorrow’s touch.
This, I know. Yet, e’en the wood
in me craves so much;
where stone, I long,
where bone, I mourn.

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A draft poem of sorts, written belatedly for the wonderful Brian Miller’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub asking for something medieval.  I am also posting for With Real Toads Tuesday Platform.   Above is the picture (copyright infringement not intended) of a medieval German madonna and child from New York City Metropolitan Museum.  Below is a non-medieval madonna and child in Uruguay, whose pic was taken by yours truly.