Viewing Kershisnik’s Nativity

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A child, a little girl of four, 
a balled string of curiosity, 
had to touch the canvas 

where an angel in white, 
turning from the Nazarene, 
looked out to jubilate. 

Who could blame her? 
The angel flowed in a choir 
of angels, a river of white robe 

that swam around the Holy Child, 
as stunning as the melting snow cap 
of Timpanogos under sunlight. 

Oils of the hand soil the paint, 
the mother explained, dull the color. 
But what if the hand turned luminous 

instead, absorbed that seraphic dazzle 
until it glowed like the moon? 
What if the milky light coursed ahead 

to the girl’s heart, flooded the body, 
until finally it lifted and swirled her, 
heel to crown, into the painting  

to join the anthem? What then? 
Isn’t that how art will touch back? 
Swallow the spirit whole forever?