St. Agatha (On Seeing Her Portrait In Malta) Poem by Morgan Michaels

In her tormentors' eye, the glint of pure evil
harrows the virgin-coolness of her gaze.
Her suppliant face, its delicate white oval
set with the rectitude that rankled Rome
beseeches us, her ultimate tribunal.

One slender breast, up-ended on a salver
tells their grisly task but half-done:
it matches a rueful wound- poor dumb disclaimer,
glaring as round and livid as the sun
neatly cleft and gemmed with drops of blood

Together, the twin journeymen of terror
plot for all time their horrid second act
squinting cruelly, plunge their tongs in fire-
banal, quite, but rightly so, in fact,
the empire depended on such doings.

There have been wonders. Rough beasts have balked
at unholy bidding; feet, lashed
and plunged in inoccuous fire; feathered nocks
have hung in mid-air, their shafts grounded
before undivided flesh that water refused to drown.

But this time there is no miracle:
for fire often fails to flee in wonder
about staid feet; even unbidden, lions usually will
rend bone from bone from fragile socket;
the boiled corse bobs in the figured tun.

And earth, who resents any such pre-emption
of her regle and reign, is paid for her chagrin
in purling maiden's blood; Square now with heaven,
her held heart begins to beat, again
and pushing daily corn up in the air.