St. George Poem by Morgan Michaels

Improbably, he peers at us-
not the dragon-demon at his feet-
this argent steed, whose sire, Pegasus,
bore the Favorito, Perseus,
down the airy steep;

and pledges with his sapient, little face
us and his Rider, the amazing warrior,
mail-clad form of scarcely bearable grace-
trust without measure, endless faithfulness-
so shall we pledge Jesus our Redeemer.

But this dragon is not the fish of tufa
that slid heavily, barnacle-implanted
out of the pearl-stuck grotte
to menace golden-haired Andromeda
as her father, the king, lamented:

this is the Fiend, the Evil One, the Liar
who prowls the world plotting the souls' ruin
and blisters forever in Ghehenna-fire.
all that stirs in the night, all that conspires
for chaos, void, ineffable confusion
feels this wound-trembles and despairs.

Relieved, the kings' heart breaks. Perhaps he dies.
The Cross takes root- exquisitely, it bears.
The virgin may continue with her prayers
rapt, beneath his gently lowered eyes.