Magdalen

one last glearyeyed look towards the clouded-sky, and the legs trapped beneath her shook loose the one thought she'd always denied. she would watch his hand sweep & cradle her neck, saying goodnight, her eyes would follow and keep watching his fading form, long out of sight. his paintings always held something she loved, black roses, swirling van gogh clouds, overgrown gardens, virgin mothers in shrouds at the foot of ashwood rosaries. she a catholic, he the eucharist, her acrylic oil dreams knew nothing of this tryst. the way this magdalene posed for her last portrait made her last painted tear, her last skyward gaze immortal, or past, divinity, or near.