If faith is a tree that sorrow grows <br />and women, repentant or not, are swamps, <br /> <br />a man who comes for solace here <br />will be up to his knees and slow <br /> <br />getting out. A name can turn on anyone. <br />But say that a woman washes the dust <br /> <br />from a stranger’s feet <br />and sits quite dry-eyed in front <br /> <br />of her mirror at night. <br />The candle flame moves with her breath, as does <br /> <br />the hand of the painter, who sees in the flame <br />his chance for virtuosity. She lets him leave <br /> <br />her shoulder bare. <br />Bedlam’s distilled from a Mary too, <br /> <br />St. Mary’s of Bethlehem, shelter <br />for all the afflicted and weak <br /> <br />of mind. The donors conceived of as magi <br />no doubt. The mad and the newborn <br /> <br />serve equally well for show. <br />A whore with a heart, the rich <br /> <br />with a conscience, the keepers of language <br />and hospitals badly embarrassed at times <br /> <br />by their charge. The mirror refuses <br />the candle, you see. And tears on another’s behalf <br /> <br />are not <br />the mirrors he’s pleased to regard. <br /> <br />Who loves his ironies buxom and grave <br />must hate the foolish water of her eyes.<br /><br />Linda Gregerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/maudlin-or-the-magdalen-s-tears/
