Winged Victory: Paris

Winged Victory, Louvre, Paris3I did not seek out Winged Victory,
she reached out and took me in me.
Waiting for me in that stone room
at the top of the stairs,
her envoy and I became one.

Only after that December night did she reveal her true glory.
I saw her as needles of light, peeking out between two sharp mountain-peaks.
In one hand she held a green-speckled apple and in the other a radiant star.
Mornings, she would drop yellow sunlight upon my tabletops.
Afternoons, I held her cup of rose-infused tea.
Toward evening, I’d glimpse her skirting the kitchen floor with a breadcrumb in her mouth (food for the hive).
One apocalyptic midnight, she draped along a dank gutter
showing me that she was pregnant in those who turned away.

For years, she flirted with me behind this self-embroidered veil
Flowing and ebbing into the quiet sanctuaries of my mind.
Now, through nights as thick and dark as heartwood
I see her cushioned upon an ocean of her own tears.
Ancient hair, like wisdom, is a steady flame around her face.
Last night, I saw her clearly again when her doves flushed and scattered.
White wings opened as she rose from her pedestal and took flight around the world in humble prayer.

copyright © 2013 Martha Fawcett

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