|A grave at the Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow |
offered by Tess Kincaid
for Magpie Tale 103
I saw at first a triangle
of red hot iron from the anvil,
burning an imprint in a palm
of hands raised in ritual gesture,
forging a seal, a sign…a stigmata.
Or was it a ruby: blood-red jewel
in a sacrificial lotus of fingers; an offering
of volcanic rock born in a molten inferno,
cooled to hard beauty, sharpened
to knife edge, cutting insignia in soft flesh.
Or hands as lotus; formed in the mud of a swamp,
not unlike men and women, made to grow
through dark waters, tears of pain, striving
to burst into bloom in the clear light of day;
to radiate the beauty of enlightenment.
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