Pietà, World’s Fair, N.Y., 1965
She could still see it,
there at a great distance,
encased in glass.
After the long waiting in crowded lines,
now narrowed into single file,
tickets in hand.
And this moving before it,
unable to stop.
No touching the white marble mother
with bended head,
the lifeless son,
his arms and legs
draped within the folds
of her billowing robe.
Utterly still, beautiful.
But we were not unmoving.
Were not made of stone,
polished to perfection,
in one moment of ceaseless grace.
In my mind’s eye,
I do not know which way to look,
at which mother and son-
ours hand in hand, mouthing silent prayer-
we had never seen an image wrought
of such suffering, such piety before.
My mother had her handbag over her arm and wore her linen suit,
handmade, good heels, lipstick, pearls.
My brother wore his blazer, navy blue, white shirt, too hot for a tie.
My dress was blue. I remember that there were birds
on the collar and three quarter sleeves,
blue birds, that looked at any moment as if they might fly away.
The conveyer moved us along, as if inconsequential.
We who were the living, the easily forgotten ones,
with everything that came after still before us.
Moving inexorably toward our fate, unable to stop,
our own mother and her son not long for this world.
Holy mother, you gave us the world.
© 2013, Janice Riley. All rights reserved.
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