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Devon Balwit
Hail to the Pure
(After Ivan Abright’s Portrait of Chigi Piedra)

Christ died for this—to nestle
at the breast of a nubile maiden.

Look at him concentrating
in the ivory of her brooch,

feeling her blood pulsing beneath
silken skin. His is the stillness

of the overly-full. She feels it, too,
lips pooched round with surprise,

even her cameo wide-eyed. She
has bundled herself like a refugee,

everything she owns in layers, fat
against want. Now, she burns like

an oven, so warming the dead god
that he may just rise again, flinging

off his shroud and stripping her bare.
Then, even the cherubim will blush.