In the chapel of stained glass
a Madonna bathes in red and gold.
She presses the world between
lips of a child as if pressing a flower
between two blank pages.
There is a requiem of windows in her eyes.
Outside, there is a revolution that does not sleep,
hands that turn the night into a map of bones.
Thin ribs of bridges arch over waters older than the wind,
where, at the lagoon, fishermen catch abandoned prayers in their nets.
A cleft of light cuts across the room like a razor blade
before losing direction, as if a lost compass.
Sometimes, I lose direction,
wait in invisible silence for the page to be turned.
In the labyrinth of alleyways
my shadow sprawls like a bruise across cold stone,
the edges curl with uncertainty and heat
as if paper thin flowers of August Bougainvillea.
When it rains, the Acqua Alta carries me to the feet of saints.
Originally published in California Quarterly.
Linda Ibbotson is a poet, artist and photographer from Sheffield, England, living in Cork, Ireland and has been published internationally, including The Irish Times, Irish Examiner, California Quarterly, Limelight, Boyne Berries, Washing Windows Too. In 2021, she collaborated with Russian pianist and composer Arsentiy Kharitonov.