MADONNA OF THE DRY TREE

Who can find
      its end? My hair bound

in a knot
      at the nape of my neck

loops in
      upon itself. To calm

your wavering
      fists, I put a ball in your

Christ-
      you-cry-all-the-time hands.

Perhaps if I rested
      my nose on the soft bones

of your head
      I could smell bliss.

On the edge
      of my knees I hold you

a reckless
      distance from my breast.

After
      you were cut away

from me,
      marked by a belly knot,

Ann
      the whittler chiseled us

out of
      a dark wood,

confined
      you and me between

parallel lines
      of a straight-backed chair.

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