Orange is Blue's other Hue
by Constance Kramer

I am drawn to her, Ia Orana Maria,
naked Son on her shoulder, a toddler
who’s tuckered from miracle-practice;
those girls could be praying, but maybe
they’re clapping their hands; saved
from an afternoon’s work, they can play
and not harvest papayas. I get this Maria-
this one with a brown face, not a porcelain,
plaster-paint, fairest-of-all-face; look
at that knowing grin: knows how to work, knows
how to sweat, knows how to cry, knows that
all can be gathered; knows that her work’s
in the basket she’s making, her heart’s
in the hoping, her dream’s in the baking
of bread, in the singing of stories,
requesting that water be made into wine.

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