— After Miguel Cabrera’s portrait of Saint Gertrude, 1763
In the legend, Saint Gertrude is called to write
after seeing, in a vision, the sacred heart of Christ.
after seeing, in a vision, the sacred heart of Christ.
Cabrera paints her among the instruments
of her faith: quill, inkwell, an open book,
of her faith: quill, inkwell, an open book,
rings on her fingers like Christ’s many wounds—
the heart emblazoned on her chest, the holy
the heart emblazoned on her chest, the holy
infant nestled there as if sunk deep in a wound.
Against the dark backdrop, her face is a wafer
Against the dark backdrop, her face is a wafer
of light. How not to see, in the saint’s image,
my mother’s last portrait—the dark backdrop,
my mother’s last portrait—the dark backdrop,
her dress black as a habit, the bright edge
of her afro ringing her face with light? And how
of her afro ringing her face with light? And how
not to recall her many wounds: ring finger
shattered, her ex-husband’s bullet finding
shattered, her ex-husband’s bullet finding
her temple, lodging where her last thought lodged?
Three weeks gone, my mother came to me
Three weeks gone, my mother came to me
in a dream, her body whole again but for
one perfect wound, the singular articulation
one perfect wound, the singular articulation
of all of them: a hole, center of her forehead,
the size of a wafer—light pouring from it.
the size of a wafer—light pouring from it.
How, then, could I not answer her life
with mine, she who saved me with hers?
with mine, she who saved me with hers?
And how could I not, bathed in the light
of her wound, find my calling there?
of her wound, find my calling there?