Photo used by permission. https://armstreet.com
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.