Master of Italian marble shapes

you in white,

framed in blue royalty.

Jesus held in one arm your

hand points to your womb, your

engagement with God,

some say Joseph.

Gold halos, you and your son,

he makes the sign, the Trinity,

two fingers point up, one down.

You and Jesus are stained,

but you stand immaculata,

the sculpture maculata,

unpolished white,

darkened folds in your dress.

Your neck tarnished, shoulders

almost black. What happened to the

angelic face?

Dirty creases from candles

and incessant prayers

touches and kisses

clay stains smear you both,

footprints on your faces, and

Jesus knees look bruised.

Your virginal body thrown to the pigs.

Your eyes and his,

shattered.