The Limestome Madonna in the Grotte des Demoiselles.(Brief Article)(Poem)

 
THE LIMESTONE MADONNA 
IN THE GROTTE DES DEMOISELLES 
 
   A fall you don't seem to land from, your skull 
   gripped by the forceps of rushing tunnels, 
   through the Salle de la Main 
   to the massif's heart, La Cathedrale des Abimes. 
   That life my mother lived in unrelieved dark 
   is here. She's the stalagmite Madonna--towering, 
   armless, white as ECT. 
   And that baby she's not holding 
   (its spine flowering from her ribs) is me. 
   She doesn't notice my body is a bouquet. 
   But she can hear the music that always played 
   in her head. Put an ear to the mountain 
   and listen to the muffled drumming, 
   that's how my mother speaks--her 
   face veiled by that stone sheet, 
   her mouth gagged by crystals. 
   Bloated by Lithium, her triple chins 
   tremble behind its translucent folds. 
   Organ pipes are ...