When I stared at her face, slack
with lack of will, her mouth
open as a deep pool, so exposed,
I could almost watch
the breath rush in,
and the angel, gazing down
as though he’d created her,
scooped her from the rough rock
like a drowning woman from the sea,
smoothed her gleaming face, her supple
hand, carved the whipped
waves of her gown,
when I looked up, deep gold spikes
shooting from the sky: Teresa,
drenched in rapture, the angel glistening
with delight—
I thought of you last Sunday morning
standing over me in your leopard bra from Ross.
You had the same infinitely tender smile
and the same burning arrow in your hand.