Poetry | September 28, 2020
Poems: Kay Cosgrove
Like the Middle Ages
Hell is being stuck in perpetua next door to genius.
Like the Middle Ages, whose art and people feel like
first drafts of Renaissance greatness. To be close—but—
a hair shy. To be gone before the Internet, or a drug
that could have saved your life had you made it through
one more night. Like two ships. The twenty-first century feels like neither
the right nor wrong place at neither the right nor wrong time.
You feel me? Cimabue got it right, his Madonna just sitting there
as the baby paws her face. It was a dark age, wasn’t it?
And anyway, she could be imagining how hot it was
the day a regular guy walked on water, the sun
scorching the crowd gathered to lick it all up.
They felt the world break open, to be sure, but
misremembered who first spoke the word m-i-r-a-c-l-e.
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