The Castrato
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
It sounded like the seraphim in song,
Forked voiced, with vampire blood infused, inspired,
And sending dry ice coldness like a prong
To ear and heart, like angel voices fired
Above saints’ heads on Pentecost, as weird
And sacred as the screaming of a throat
Inside a martyr victim being seared
While at the stake. The eeriness could float
Not just in opera houses but above
The throne of Christ in heaven, flames on wings.
Six wings in flight, flame-thrower fiery dove,
The voice box thrilled like honey-basted stings.
The Papacy ensured that low-class boys
Were sliced to make its mangled singing toys.
~ Phillip Whidden