The Martyrdom of Saint Agatha

The knife forgets my body. Somewhere in a field
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxit rots in the hand

that held it. I was buried tasting
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxthe earth. I was buried
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxwith each breast cut off.

I carried them—each a bright bell, a pink bloom. A pearl

of dust, my ruined chest. Imagine—a mouth
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx filled with desire and I would

not open. My legs, my body,
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxshut. How the iron hooks dug
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxmy skin and pulled me

xxxxxxxtoward every window. The wooden
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxhorse, my strapped wrists. Still, bone

on bone, refusing. Then the knife. My flesh
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxspooled in its rusted light.

My breasts held up like loaves of bread, like two
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxcakes that stopped rising.