Iconostasis (On the Hagia Sophia) by Havalah Ruth Peirce

That day in May in which they sent Sophia back

Into the streets, just as they did in ancient times,

Alas, still hasn’t ended. Holy Wisdom has

No voice, no print among the feet which tramp unshod

In time with chanting to a slanted, darkened god.

Pantocrator—are you too far to hear what sounds,

What utter blasphemy resounds throughout this dome?

Your hand is raised—in mercy? Benediction? Why?

Why not to drive them out? I must confess, I might.

But grant me this at least: they must have cast their gaze

Aside when plastering your perfect face, lest guilt,

Or curiosity, might prompt a man to stroke

With reverence your lips and spiraled hair, to pause

In his obedience for greater cause than just

The beauty of the tesserae. No longer does

Light flood, no; now, it seems that all it does is crack

The face of God, who in the corner waits intact.

It’s more than that. He’s grieving. All is petrified.

But fractured light’s still light and streetwise wisdom is

Still wise. In hushed process, the saints, defaced, still see:

Though scratch the icons out they tried, there’s not a one

More haunting than this one, the One, the Haunted’s eyes.

Havalah Ruth Peirce lives in the tropics of south Texas. She is a graduate of Saint Constantine College, a former Fine Arts teacher, and is currently pursuing her M.A. in Humanities at Ralston College. A student of Classical Christian thought, she is constantly seeking to cultivate wonder, both in herself and in the world around her.