In those days Dymphna sat in black
unshaven trees, white hair, blue flesh, and
prayed over a boy whose rash darkened to
stigmata. Blackbirds perched behind her as
sandalwood scented the dying boy,
bound in wet sheets. Purple orchids
opened from her breath. In a poppy's
milk-warm sleep he pressed his head into
her breasts. Lightning lit his eyes, face
orange, diamonds in his hair. Sailors
rowed his bones to heaven as he cried out:
"Crush me, God! Trample me like grass,
sever me petal by petal like roses in wind.
Grind me, mortar and pestle, into dust!"
Michael Fontana lives and writes in beautiful Bella Vista, Arkansas.