The Renaissance would sing of you in blue
and white
stained glass, with ruby crown,
the red
blood of your body next ran down
to the
torment of your outer flesh; you
were
determined to die in every room
of the
three levels of humankind: sound
doctrine
made us build stone mansions, to found
hell, and
earth, and heaven. Before monsoons
of spirits
conjured up ideals: hours
swept
away like old houses and picket
fences,
marigolds flying in maize.
Rose-red
smile, the dark hair, and pale-powdered
face of evening, Lilith's flow'r, Lilibet's
cry from all lands sounds, pure oil in a haze.
—Emily Isaacson
Photo used by permission: Armstreet Clothing Company
