Wooden Virgin with Child
Alicia Ostriker

Once the trunk of a lovely tree,
She sits on her narrow chair
In an alcove of the Cloisters.
Patient, modestly shawled,
As yet only slightly  hunched,
For she is still young, in fact
(Though dry, cracked a bit 
Flecks of paint clinging to bodice)
Like one fresh from the convent. 
Selfless, she does what she's told 
But will not meet your eye.
The manchild between her knees like a doll, 
Hand risen to bless, but headless,
Is the one with the book.

You and I stand and look
In our velvet jackets and tough
Boots free to come or go,
At this mystery. Who
Would have been the model, was she his wife?
Honor his wisdom, to know 
That God needs the protection
Of this sad, simple woman,

His wish also to pity her, she
Who is said to be the incarnation of pity. 


Ontario Review #51