BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

Rainbow streamers

Slice the sky,

Mortally wounded

Yet undying,

Bleeding colors

And spilling stars

Over Albion,

Merry in mourning,

Whole in brokenness,

Since Brutus battled giants

And Joseph planted thorns.

Slay the monster,

Prick the finger,

Suffer in victory,

Rejoice in defeat.

And here they come,

The grieving farmers

With their dead master,

Laid out in a cart,

Headless the corpse,

Headless the people.

The bark of the hounds

And the cry of the hawks

Echo the last hunt,

For God was the hunter,

And the soul was the fox,

Yet the prey yielded sweetly,

Like a lady entranced,

And agony became ecstasy.

Martyred isle,

Own thy son,

Rebel saint,

Holy fool,

Young lord,

Bestowing bread

To feed thousands,

Yet refusing broth

Made with meat.

No blood but Christ’s

Gave him strength

To shed his own

Upon the scaffold

Where he screamed,

“Sweet Jesus!”

Again and again

And yet again,

Like a moaning lover

Whose heart might break,

And they killed him

As he screamed,

And Albion

Was silenced.

Severed head

Was held aloft,

Spilling crimson,

Then purple,

Which streaked the sky

And shone in the lake

Of Derwentwater

He knelt with his bride

Before they took him;

He kissed his babe

Before they took him;

He embraced the man

Pardoned instead,

And forgave his foes

Again and again

And yet again,

His voice trembling

And his face white

As they scrambled

For his clothes and wig

As if he were already dead.

He clutched his crucifix,

And so was crucified.

God help us

When we slaughter our saints.

God grant that the wounds we inflict

Remain visible,

As they did upon the palms of Christ,

And if all other memories fade,

Our happy fault will remain.

May the lights guide us,

As they guided his lordship,

Home.