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Rosary Bead, South Netherlandish, Early 16th Century
To carve a world in a nutshell…
a dream is something
like this—a thing to
pin you to your seat, impel you
forward—whatever the movement to
match the task. Tonight the
friar bends in dim light, ink
thickens on the quill.
Singular devotion yields a
boxwood rosary bead a
revelation to fit your
palm, unfolding the whole
story etched in a hinged orb
alleluia. Believe
me, in a museum atop Manhattan
Island surrounded by unicorns a
macular miracle how the thing was made
candles flicker in the dark,
passing the night in stone walls
damp with December pressing in.
With mercy toward the mouse
who’d tucked into a beeswax feast,
he brought broken hosts after
Vespers to save his
wax for much needed illumination,
light of the world two and one
quarter inches in diameter
Adam and Eve cast from the garden,
Gabriel visiting Mary,
farewells in Gethsemane, torment on
Calvary, rolling away the stone,
crowned on heavenly throne, a
dark stain where blade
opened Monk’s thumb, a wound
to mark the Matins page before
weak winter sun leaks through
leaded panes and
still the world goes on.
Originally published in Quantum Poetry
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