James Mullaney
MARY AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS
When Mary swayed beneath that tree, she owned
The purest spirit mauled by purest spite
That wherefrom ever mournful music moaned;
And the gift - or the curse - of omnisight.
Millenia pressed to a breathless flash
Like phantom pharaohs in Egyptian tombs;
And history's telos burst like the plash
Of molten meteors' demonic plumes
In Mary's gaze. Woman, behold your son.
Behold, your mother. A reciprocal
Seeing, then, settles the world's salvation:
Hers the universal, ours the local.
From focal points in heaven and on earth
The rood in Mary's eyes makes fortunesworth.
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