The Sailor and the Angel in the Altarpiece

for Lisa H-L

I The SailorSky opensSilver moonlightSpills across the waterA boat sails The sailor is asleep

The seafarer smells the sea Strong on the windFirst spits of rainSoftly signalsThe returning gale

He moves toward the portal Stares unseeingA different stormSlaps the stanchions of his self

With me comes the flood

Despite the cap of authorityHe’s an unwelcomed guest A dog in water In an unsteady worldAs if the sea too hides its sufferingThe inside of his skull Life devours lifeAn edgeless lesionThe size of a man and womanIn tight embrace

Sleety squalls come and goWhat to feel anymoreWhat to believe or to thinkThe flash of memory

The angel in the altarpieceDivine midwife to motherhoodThe Child sluiced out into the worldLaden with promise The sailor recalls his own burden of birthHow love screams in dull places

Early gleam shimmers the waterThe cold grey mist Whispers the breath of GodAs speech and thoughtDissolve away

In this season of rainIn these naked hours These painful instabilitiesA sailor moves out from his faceAnd never forgets the sea

II The Angel On the day the rain stoppedA hazy silhouette barely seen Appears in the backgroundDetached from any reckoningPasses among crofts and cottages

Once among the great gods of lightThe night work of ritualistsA supernumerary essence Heavy bent with sadnessLike a collapsed roof

Unclasped hair blows softlyAbout yet realized featuresThe slow corporeality Moves from the weightless shell That has seen so much below

Wrathful masters Spinning wheels of dead meatThe eyes of the young Under ruins of hopelessnessSwollen like horses in panic

Soon to be named

Among the disembodiedWithin heaven’s rotating stationsSo very distant and coldIn the black expectation of space

III. The AltarpieceIt is not the primary subject that’s importantThe religious vignettes in closed symmetryIt’s the secondary motifs the detailsEverything in the backgroundLeisurely tumbling toward us

The distant cradle of hillsThe almost-hidden loversThe miniature ships Scattered here and thereThe unseen gaze of the seaward sailor

The angel is easily overlookedOn that far grey rockFeeling the rush of presenceInto its unfolding frameThe risk of being too much

An itchy terrorThat now sits in a different circle The center of the worldWhere world and heartAre an identical hallucination

Yet in this autistic reflectionIt will adopt its hueBecome the hub of a sorrowAround a laceration that coincidesWith life itself.

*Fernando Gallego, Retablo Of Ciudad Rodrigo, 1480-1488