Glykophilousa, Virgin of Tenderness*

The preciousness was mortal: pigment and wood—
             Dissolved to dust, they leave behind
                         Vacancies the mind
Fills in, imagining the faces good

And sorrowful: the mother’s kiss, the child
             Oddly wizened, his grave gesture,
                         His gaze nailed to the future,
His lips slightly curved as if they smiled.

We know the archetype, so we can see
             From outlines, the old attitudes,
                         The chroma that eludes
Us now, expanse of lapis lazuli

Lavished only on her modest raiment,
             Those heaven-saturated blues,
                         Costliest of hues—
Spending in itself a kind of payment—

And haloes gently brushed in powdered gold
             Ruddy and rich, which this carapace
                         Of silver would replace
In time—every flowing lap and fold

Of garment, where his phantom small hand clings,
             Hammered now in stiff relief
                         And gilded in gold leaf,
Glinting like armor—the metal renderings

Defining absence, as if its silhouette meant
             That somehow soft flesh could be thirled 
                         Forever to the world,
Or Love outlast its glittering revetment.

*An icon known as the Virgin of Tenderness or showing mercy