Terra d'Ombra

To gain heaven, you can’t renounce umber—

umber, red-poop color of mud,
color of heartaches without number.

For Hieronymus Bosch, debauchery was umber,
salvation some blessedness cleansed of blood.
To gain heaven, he renounced umber.

And think of poor Jeanne Hébuterne,
mistress of Modigliani—that clod—
suiciding to be rid of her heartaches without number,

eyes blank midst hair of auburn—
both she and her lover now under the sod.
Has she gained heaven by renouncing umber?

Yes, we will all slumber
with our mothers in the world before the flood,
beyond the pale of heartaches without number;

but from somewhere outside the painting the light of an invisible candle
glimmers on us like a light of God—
reflected through the power of umber,
the blessed power of heartaches without number.