Martyr who would not dance,
exchanging the fountains
of her own blood, prophylaxes
to the spurt of semen,
loosed to nourish
what would sprout
to savage, soul-devouring strength.
Whose body in death was only roses,
dust’s fragrant prelude.
Her green and gold dress blood-besotted,
her bright star rising through the darkening air,
above the alien domes, above cloudy shore
and churning sea, above hunter
and bird, crying
holy! holy! holy!