The Works of Saint Dymphna by Michael Fontana

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.