Caravaggio’s St. John the Baptist

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By Samantha Weisberg

Dirt cakes underneath your toenails. 
You have been running rampant through the forest, 
tripping carelessly over the Great Mother’s roots. 

Earth-spear in hand, 
you attempt to penetrate the eternal stag, 
only to have broken your weapon in two different places.  

You appear undomesticated: a fox pelt and head of disorganized curls,
yet a regal blanket of red wraps around your 
wanton boyish disposition. 

Kneecaps and elbows are flushed with pink. 
Running, then 
resting. Jumping 

the light which illuminates your chest and thighs,
expelling the maddening darkness. 

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