PITCHER AND CROWN Poem by Orietta Lozano

To Caravaggio
My beheaded, broken-down,
obscure face,
a pin stuck in the
ash of the stone,
held by the sad hand
of a sombre, anguished
angel, descends
step by step,
each gust, each crown,
the wedding bone of the reef,
where light and darkness
stay put.

The icy cold torch
that darkens does not light you.
Step by step,
goes down, slanting, roving,
each pitcher,
each flower of piety,
the silent stairs
of the long night
in the midst of the bilious footprint.

The crevice that drives you away does not draw you near.
It is the guiltless croak
of the dead animal, turned bitter
writing seven times the memory
of its last, bluish turbidity,
it is the anguish without eyelids,
without tears,
it is the blind crime
pronouncing its last sentence.