Poetry

I know your ghost still drifts like a dirty angel through this town.

Enveloped in clouds of drapery, the Virgin perches between maimed angels

He has by heart the gondolas of Venice, can summon a teakwood dhow.

Strange meeting this, the holes there in his hands and feet and heart.

All my nights are like papyrus, drenched in tears, a wash of disobedience staining my blank ease.

A poem by Jessica Powers from The Second “America” Book of Verse, a collection of the best of America poetry, 1930 to 1955.