Vale Dicere Ave Maria

what if she never wanted
your pedestals of rosy clouds
the apotheosis of cornflower blue and 

the golden roses at her feet, the myrtle and the lilies sweet
painted by the mystic painters of later centuries

embroidered by Saints

Our Lady among cherubs
and the visionary

coronated by angels
or annunciated
amid the Italian cypresses

and the archways
in a formal view.

her name was Mary.
she bore Christ when
she was very new herself

the spring tide in her heart
was God alone and she loved wildflowers,
the sun. her household in a honeyed light

to be the only one up at night

the air after the rains.
why would she need

to be robed with such complications
to be lifted into starry names.
to become the subject of Latin hymns.

she bore Christ.
she was there with him from the first
of his very real life on earth.

Rilke's angel
cried: "Thou art the Tree."

she would have understood that.

but I am the one my mother called Mary.
why would you call me queen of the sea

she would have wondered mystified
at their veneration, o Ivory tower

oh gilded statues in the grand cathedrals

anywhere else instead
she would have said
I wanted to be to ponder the least thing.

why do they call me foreign names

I was only his mother.
I wanted a quiet space;
to be at home, to marvel at the small graces

at table, or sweeping the floors noting 
his little words at the beginning
honey on the page.

time to think what life had been or would have
without the rage of those who despised Him
cut down in his youth by ruthless men as it was foreordained,  yet

with Him so suddenly removed into an empty tomb

you could not name my pain
and then, with John I lived the rest. or tried to.
what did I need with the glorias

and the kingdom comes

when I was under his star.
my son, my Son.

mary angela douglas 7 october 2019;23 march 2021