The Holy Women at the Sepulchre, Duccio di Buoninsegna, 1308-1311.

This morning, I am the woman in orange. 
 My sister, the faithful mother in green, 
  and someone we know well is the harlot 
   in her fading scarlet pleats.

Our heads, sweet Duccio, so identical and round, 
 so filled with a species of love
  like duty and doubt,
   defy pious hands.
   
You give us a Tuscan angel, extracted from Matthew,
 modeled on our brothers, our husbands,
  and perched on the emptied sepulchre
   like a bird, or a bat.

Our varieties of myrrh, he suggests, you suggest
 without words,  our various aloes might as well 
  be poured onto the ground, 
   absorbed in sand.
     
Dead Duccio, we knew your children who gave away
 their inheritance to their mother,
  blessed woman who mixed these pigments
   that settle into our strong faces.

Dead Duccio, every morning of our lives at mass
 one woman or another rises up again, as a mountain,
  as a mourner on a stuccoed wall that opens 
   into a Gospel we bless with our open eyes.