after the sculpture by Giovanni Bernini
Bernini's beatific
Mystic, humility's folds
tucked into her robe
like the tubercular vow
caught in her lung.
To martyr the self in its rash imperfection
is an urgency no virgin would know.
But Theresa's the bride of Christ
flown into trance, mantle flung back,
violet eyelids
low and euphoric, fluttery
tensing of fingers and toes,
fever
blessing her muscles,
oxygen fog in her blood,
bones strung
in loose modulation
like notes of Gregorian chant,
a hum off the moon
as the voice of the Spouse
sails down through the bell-
shaped shadows
where her raised index finger
trembles
inside the marble
and molecules swoon
through lavender-pure
and murmuring
stone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem