Big City, Little


on hearing Pergolesi, a Friday concerto
Margo Berdeshevsky

Not yet Easter now but dark,
but dusk, how this nearness of March-soprano
strays exposure, like old light -- layered, and multiple.
This dust of the moon, breaking.

This is magnolia, in the courtyards,
and April, climbing the shoulder of its Stabat Mater
for a better view of joy, after.

This is the slow-hipped walk of winter's late fugue,
and the mimosa's promise.
This, the dust of the Hôtel Dieu
across its island of stone.

Still, a shoulder soft with Saturday's
desire, sips her warmed, day-drowning hour.
Soft, because skies, and copper light,
lost on its own thread.
Soft, because it bends into the Seine
like some redhead on a silken sheet, already
rumpled for her arrival
and His death.
Soft, because He hung by dust
and thread
and promise, and love.

And she mourned with her high voice
and for ever, layered, and multiple, and music, and mother.

©2000 Margo Berdeshevsky
M. Berdeshevsky is a contributing editor to Big City Lit(tm). She lives in Paris and Maui.