St. Teresa's Ecstasy

At last we know Bernini deceived us
when he chiseled his name on this stone.
Seven years his calloused hands dreamed
against burnished limbs, grew pliant
 
as beeswax in sun, the artist unable
to confess the miracle he’d seen--
cool marble melting over the shoulders
of a seraph, who, granted the gift
 
of incarnation, emerged from his airy cloak
like flame, wavered before the kneeling saint
and smiled, the feel of his lips a brief
distraction until he lifted her scapular, opened
 
the coarse wool of her dress to expose
a breast not unused to disciple,
nights she’d tear at her inconstant, flickering
heart which he pierced with his burning dart
 
to make concrete the abstraction of love,
the distance between earth and heaven
diminished with each descending arc,
her head thrown back as he shrugged off
 
his immortal form, feathers settling
like ash at her feet and him still smiling
when flesh was seared into stone
by a god who merely lifted his hand,
 
that gesture which left Lot’s wife white
and framed against burning sky.  How else
can we explain such perfect forms,
saint and angel enthroned on a cloud
 
in the act of rising toward the chapel dome,
when flesh and spirit faltered, entwined
in the rapture of matter which refused
their swift ascent, which whispered,
 
Touch me here and Here.