Madonna of Bruges
Frances Boyle
How can I help but be moved by the hollow at her marble throat , smoothed plane of her jaw , eyes so ly cast down serene looking , not at the boy who leans on her knee hugging one of her hands , but towards the book she holds , open-palmed , with the other ?
She looks real my daughter says of the postcard I carry home . And , yes , the master has carved life in her hair , eyebrows , lips , so indentation of her chin , the folds of her hood .
Real , yes . But her untroubled love for a boy who could only be trouble deepens the bruises from my too-real daughter ’ s flailing moods ; my own lack of serenity mirror-altered if not rebuked in the tenderness her stone exudes .
Previously published on the Ice Floe Press website , November 4 , 2020