In her heyday
she was Queen of the Renaissance,
the painter’s pin-up.
Mary’s story told on altarpieces
in tempera and oil, wood and ceramic.

The young Angel Gabriel
on bended knee before her
like a lover come to plead his case, 
resplendent in peacock finery,
wings of rich ruby and gold spread wide, 
a gestured hand held out,

come to announce her good fortune, 
anointed Mother of God. 
Arrangements made, miracles ordered, 
no need to worry,
but what did Mary think?
What might any woman to hear such news?

That day like any other
spent in solitude and quiet of the garden, 
reading, soft curls falling,
a lapis cloak for warmth.
Perhaps she noticed the dove that circled, 
spreading shafts of golden light.

Yet, beyond symbols of belief
and formal structure
all is not sweetness and light,
Mary, head held humbly
arms folded in divine acceptance
as Fra Angelico would have us believe.

Caught off guard, Botticelli’s Mary 
stays the angel with outstretched hand 
as if to say “Wait.”
Martini’s Mary seems afraid,
body turned away, eyes averted, 
perhaps a case of mistaken identity?

In Palermo,
Mary is set apart, framed
alone on an easel—
no messenger, no dove, no lily whites— 
just full face,
blue cloak and hood held tight,
leaning forward on her desk,
book open, hand raised
this time to stay the viewer
left, as she is,
to ponder her fate and her answer.