The Penitent Magdalene

Finding the sacred
within the common,
he fled at the glint of his rival’s knife
w/ the prostitute he’d make a saint.

They ran through dark Roman streets
to the Cardinal’s apartments,
stone lions regarding them
as they stood at the threshold.

He put a finger to her lips
and spirited her upstairs,
with an urgency she took for desire.
She started to disrobe.

“Mary, stop,” he gently rebuked her.
“I’m going to paint you.”
When he swept aside velvet curtains,
moonlight bathed the room.

He motioned for Mary,
in wrinkled blouse and woolen tunic,
to sit in the pool of light cast on the floor,
legs folded beneath her.

When she’d arranged herself in profile,
hands behind her back,
he turned her bruised cheek forward,
moved her swollen hands to her lap

but brushed the knots out of her hair
until it was smooth and shiny
before placing it over a shoulder
and backing up to his easel.

He painted without drawing,
creating shades of brown suggesting
the floor beneath her, the wall behind her
and a sliver of light.

He conjured Mary from the darkness,
the sweet face of a young woman
who had fallen asleep to
the caress of a hairbrush.

The Penitent Magdalene.
As night disintegrated into dawn,
Caravaggio heard the creaking of a door
and shuffling of feet.

He roused Mary from her sleep,
pressing crumpled bills into her hands,
then led her back down the stairs
out to the street.

“Thank you, Mary.” He kissed her forehead.
“It’s Anna,” she replied,
looking him in the eyes for the first time
before running out of view.