by Sarah Sommers
There’s no warning.
You step through the massive, decorated doors
And there it is to your right. A young mother cradling
Her dead son. Stone fashioned into flesh
And blood. It takes your breath away.
She seems perfectly calm,
If a little sorrowful. One arm
Supporting the boy she birthed. The other
Angled, fingers tilted down, palm
Facing the sky. From here,
She is immaculate –
Art imitates life.
When I was younger,
I was told that I should strive
To be perfect. To be
Like her. To say “Yes” to God
Without any hesitation.
Yet, I can’t help wondering
If on that hill –
Over two thousand years ago –
This young mother
Cast her gaze to the sky and asked
I wonder if, deep down inside,
Some tiny voice was lashing out
Against His plans for her.
If she had to bite down on her tongue
To stop herself from screaming.
If her fingers were curled into a fist,
Instead of opened in offering –
An emblem of rage instead of resignation.
Because, after all, she was still