she sits entwined in ivy
fettered by all times of time
—
the hands are what catch the eye first
huge hands with long fingers folded and interlaced
arched neck and tilted head equine, not human
blue eyes stare vacantly from their perch above serious nose
lips curve into a bitter pout
—
wind gusts rustle the verdant leaves
startling the ravens from slumber
La Pia! La Pia! they caw and cackle on their wing-ed way
—
painting is dante’s private purgatory
so he borrows his namesake’s tale
to tell his own the better
—
their love is the bliss of heaven
but their crime holds a circle in hell
his heart’s desire cannot, will not be freed
—
she is not the patient The Pious
but merely a model sulking like all his women do
just gabriel’s forbidden love silently, mockingly cursing her husband
from the gold-gilt frame her lover crafted to hold her
those hands could do cruel, wicked things
—
she sits entwined in ivy
fettered by all times of time
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