(After seeing Matisse’s Stations of the Cross,
La Chappelle du Rosaire de Vence)  

The Stations are mounted on the back wall of a side chapel,
a matrix of white tiles on which harsh charcoal lines
slash their way upward in continuous motion,
bottom left to upper right,
winding, turning, telling as they go a stark
seamless story as featureless shapes
wend their thorny way from the tribunal
to the tomb,

except
at Station 6–

Just off center, not quite midway along the journey,
a small cloth interrupts the story’s inevitable procession;
it bears a face—the only face with features—
nose, mouth, saddened eyes—
an image
pressed onto the fabric
that had been Veronica’s veil.

I wonder sometimes what genius,
what spirit, perhaps,
guided the artist’s aging hands.  After all,  
he could have put the Face of the Divine anywhere,
could have portrayed Veronica’s quiet act of compassion
as some unremarkable element in the plot.
    Instead, the image compels us to stop,
compels us to think of such simple
moments of presence,
to consider that piece of cloth,
to feel it burning itself
into heart and mind and memory,
compels us
to consider its questions.