Confession of an icon writer
I mixed a touch too much sallow
into St. Catherine’s skin (that milk
in her veins) and let the Christ
Pantocrator express a blush of joy
(you know the left-hand angel
in Rublev’s Trinity? Like that.), gave
Eve more glow than Mary, blanched
the nimbus of Jonah, just a tad,
and lent to Simon Peter a frugal hint
of depth. My St. Mary of Egypt
shows more breast than necessary.
Father, I take private pleasure
in my work, enjoy it past measure,
as one who sprinkles sugar on berries
or tames taut flesh with satiety.
My images drive me to reach far
more than grasp. I’m ravenous
to touch the source, and become it.
I ache to surpass my forebears, thirst
for mysteries. I add, subtract, invent--
see here my impeccable little gecko,
sunning upon the rocks, here,
above the resurrection.