The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian

Someone had put a scythe to the sweet grass--
                           its torn blades, like fistfuls of emerald
                fire, bled into summer dusk the scent of something
half-remembered, while crows drifted
                           in wide arcs as if to mimic the farmer
                who paused in his work to watch them thrust
toward sun, their hollow feathers
                           like those which kept the sleek Mauretanian arrows

                true as soldiers kissed each silver tip
pulled from quiver, to bow, to level
                            with their squinting eyes on the Palatine
                Hill, each shaft singing against the small
breeze, going deep as love into the young boy’s
                            flesh, slim thighs, chest oiled with sweat, one
                blade ringing against the bones of his left ankle
like a grim toast, though his executioners were less

                             cruel than drunk on sour wine which spilled,
                almost black in the half-light, from earthen jugs,
Sebastian’s hands drawn tight above his head
                            with three straps of fine leather, one arrow
                driving hard into the pit of his arm, though even
then he refused to break, would not look away
                            from that final, beautiful light which sent copper
                spears into the feathery clouds; and when the moon

 began to rise the soldiers left him for dead or
                            for the faces of exotic women veiled
                 in showers of perfumed hair so that the faithful
crept out of the sheltering black and cut him
                            from the wounded tree, brought him back from the light
                 he wished to fly into, though he was intent
on death’s certain fame and appeared, weeks after,
                            before the emperor, opening his robes to flaunt

                 a scar on his groin which resembled a crow, until
he was beaten with clubs, cast into a common
                           sewer where he was later found, though this time, he
                could not come back.  Finally, in death, he was
broken, not by unbelief, but by young men
                         with names like swift rivers who fingered the dark
                silk of his hair, then severed him
from himself.  Head to the west.  Heart to the south.