Redactions: Poetry @ Poetics Issue 10

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JOHN ESTES CONFESSION OF AN ICON WRITER I mixed a touch too much sallow into St. Catherine’s skin (that milk in her veins) and let the Christ Pantocrator express a blush of joy (you know the left-hand angel in Rublev’s Trinity? Like that.), gave Eve more glow than Mary, blanched the nimbus of Jonah, just a tad, and lent to Simon Peter a frugal hint of depth. My St. Mary of Egypt shows more breast than necessary. Father, I take private pleasure in my work, enjoy it past measure, as one who sprinkles sugar on berries or tames taut flesh with satiety. My images drive me to reach far more than grasp. I’m ravenous to touch the source, and become it. I ache to surpass my forebears, thirst for mysteries. I add, subtract, invent – see here my impeccable little gecko, sunning upon the rocks, here, above the resurrection.