What St. Francis Felt at the Time
He Suffered Christ’s Stigmata
It’s like I’ve learned to breathe submerged
Beneath the souls of those I loved or in
Their depths. This floating inhalation urged
Itself inside the universe, the twin
Of normal panting—only now the gasps
Are suspended in amniotic trance
As if a fish sucks passion as it rasps
The air through gills outside the cool expanse
It thought was home and finds the thinner realm
More potent as a drug than what it knew.
My sunken breathing does not overwhelm
With beauty but it turns the spirit true.
Its color is a holiness instead.
This ether heals the lungs with infrared.