At the Other Chapel
by Nadya Aisenberg
Was this what Michelangelo meant, why he left
the few blue empty inches
between Godís outstretched arm and Adamís hand?
Not the raised arm taking leave
of its creation, but the armís refusal
to reach, to touch, the endless withholding?
Did the painter see his rosy, firm-fleshed
innocent doomed to awaken from his dream,
find time invented, the animals
quite happy without their names?
Sometimes the idea
is the measure of all things. We say
Light, say Love, call God the name
unnamable. Wanting even a spiderís
web across that unspanned blue.
Sometimes the absence of God is God enough.
Copyright © 2001 by Nadya Aisenberg.
This poem is from the book Measures of Salmon
Publishing Ltd. Reprinted with permission.