SALVATORE DIFALCO

The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa

I could not imagine such abandon,

swooning for the earnest angel,

ready to accept the golden spear

in a state of sheer baroque ecstasy.

I am moved by the vision, but more

by the lunatic delicacy required

to represent in marble folds of fabric,

hands, and the dangling foot of the saint.

If I could be thus enraptured,

thus committed to my faith

in things so lacking materiality,

would I feel more sanctified?

Would I lean back gaping,

panting, limp as sodden silk,

and let my breast be pierced

by a simpering wingèd thing?

Saint Theresa, Saint Theresa of Avila,

did Bernini do justice to your vision?

And am I doing justice to your passion

or am I just another dazzled pilgrim?

The Martyrdom of St Serapion

Your spotless habit hangs like a sheet

refulging in the pitch darkness,

source of its own spectral light,

a disembodied chiaroscuro radiance.

No sign of blood or dislocation—

save for the lifeless face, the trauma

cloaked by the creases and hang

of the fabric, or by the artist erased

as if making a case for the supremacy

of the spirit over body parts

and perforated monk flesh—

the face asleep as if cradled.

But when roped to black corners,

the hands demand closer inspection,

and one question follows another.

Who posed the saint post-crucifixion?

Who ferried him from the site?

Was he not drawn and quartered?

Was his head not fixed on a pike?

Why does he look so peaceful here?

Violence repelled the artist,

in a nutshell, and for a moment

we are led to believe the monk

died softly, softly, if not well.

Poet and storyteller Salvatore Difalco is the author of five books, including The Mountie at Niagara Falls (Anvil Press), an illustrated collection of microfiction. Recent work appears in E-ratio, Poetry Lighthouse, and Cafe Irreal.  He lives in Toronto Canada.

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