Saint


I could make a martyr of you. I could make a myth.
I could tear the hair from your rose-petal skin.
I could make faint whispered stories begin.

I could poison your blood with deep-seizing poems,
tease out the tragic secret of your eyes,
leave the children of your grandchildren traumatized.

I could set you screaming on a bare marble wall,
lay you naked in cold light and have them consecrate it all.
Pray for us.


Donald Zirilli
1999