In the Image

You are a self-portrait of God.
You are how she saw herself on the day of your making
eyes turned sharp to the side,
mouth held still to capture
just the right curve of the jaw.
Who could smile into a mirror all afternoon?
Apparently God can.
Rendered in oil, you are luminescence
against the background she roughed in for you.

He is a self-portrait of God,
how God saw herself on the day of his making
a loose sketch in charcoal,
a little smudgy and soft.
Not so much in the details,
but the likeness is undeniable.

She was a self-portrait of God:
an exquisite rendering of God’s grief,
carved in marble.

We are self-portraits of Love.
She creates us again and again
to explore her own identity,
to tell her stories,
to document the process of being God.
Sketches and sculptures, murals and etchings
our human bodies a gallery,
our human hearts an exhibition.

Every street a MOMA
where we gasp in awe and wonder
at her skill and scope.

So, my loves, my dear ones
please don’t insult the artist.
Never question whether that one over there
looks like her.
She is here at her own opening.
She can hear you.

This one, she will say
a glass of white wine in her hand.
This one,
as she touches your face.
This one
is maybe my favorite.
and even if she says that about everything
she has ever made (which is, of course, everything)
it is very very true.

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