Martyrpiece and Other Poems

by Courtney Moody

MARTYRPIECE

Michelangelo painted
the Sistine Chapel
with both feet
on the ladder—
eyes up and knots
in his trapezius,
spine curved like
the fingers of Adam
shaping above him.

If tourists listened,
they would hear
his groans in
the paint, see
the fresco cracks
like the snaps
of his vertebrae.

They might read
his complaints and
call it martyrdom—
an artist’s sacrifice
for the life of
the masterpiece.

THE PROCESS OF TRANSPLANTATION

It’s odd to see my roots. Wind tickles at them. The Gardener says my old pot is too small, but it’s been home for six months. The sun shines on the soil like a blanket, and the water drains around my root system just right. It’s real terracotta all the way from Italy.

Even the roses envy it.

I grab at the sides, cling to my soil. Still, my Gardener removes me, insists the pot is suffocating my leaves. Maybe it is. Maybe I haven’t had the energy to make flowers like the magnolias or share nectar with zebra longwings like the hibiscus, but the new pot is larger than the holes dug by squirrels in the middle of the lilies, and my leaves are quivering at the sight. He’s filling it with soil. I think it might drown me. Maybe my Gardener wants me out of the landscape.

His hands are so gentle they hurt.

Now I’m plunged in and screaming at a decibel no one else hears. New soil always feels hard. Cold. If I had nails, I could scratch my stem. Or my Gardener. Now comes the water. I want to hate it and shrivel every inch of myself, but my roots are spreading and they don’t hit pot edges. Sunbeams stretch over me like lazy drops of honey. Photosynthesis never felt so new. I uncurl my edges and let my roots grow.

Perhaps here, I will bloom.

THIS POEM LIVES ON THE BRINK OF A NEW RENAISSANCE

Another age, another veil torn.

Paul only prayed his letters

could time travel to Corinth

and Ephesus and Thessalonica

in the tap of an ink-free finger.

The disciples only prayed

to download their memories

past the modern world’s edges

without tying their sandals

or tasting blood on the tongue.

It’s a pixelated Renaissance:

our candlelight is burning

in a holy blue, and testimony

travels as fast as the Rapture.

The spark has grown into

a flame, the flame into a blaze,

and the fires over our heads

bear the smell of circuits and

hearts begging to be plugged

into the one Great Outlet.

COURTNEY MOODY

Courtney Moody is a dancer, writer, and poet of faith. Her poetry publications include Ekstasis Magazine, Kelp Journal’s The Wave, and Dipity Magazine’s online features, while her prose has been featured online at Bridge Eight and in Propertius Press Draw Down the Moon. In 2022, her poem “Florida Anatomy” was awarded 2nd place for the Florida State Poet’s Association Award. She is currently editing her debut science fantasy novel while continuing to create poems and choreographic work before she melts at the hands of the sunshine state. She can be found on Twitter and Instagram @courtofwriting.