Enveloped in clouds
of drapery, the Virgin
perches between maimed

angels—pinions curved
like parentheses. Cherubim
polish scapular

feathers. A crescent
cradles her sandaled feet.
The tabernacled

multiverse: her realm,
her reign. Seraphs surround her
shoulders. With each thought,

a winged face alights.
Though the Virgin stands still, she’s
in constant motion.

Her robe sways. Legions
of tutelary saints comb
plumes. Seraphic fists

bloom with anguish. Strand
by strand, they hand them to her.
She slips open pain’s

ribbons, webs, nooses.
Her eyes tilt into hands’ work:
bouquets of knots.

This article appears in May 13 2019.

Dean Kostos has published eight poetry collections, including Pierced by Night-Colored Threads in 2017 and This Is Not a Skyscraper, which won the Benjamin Saltman Poetry Award. His writing has appeared in The Bangalore Review (India), Barrow Street, Boulevard, Chelsea, Cimarron Review and elsewhere.