A poem about Saint Francis
Before he was a backyard statue
surrounded by chiseled rabbits, fawns,
squirrels, and birds—all of them attentive
to his stone homilies for the homeless
mutts and stray cats sneaking
into elaborate garden tea parties
hosted by venerated women’s
church groups—before all this,
Francis was a man whose hands
bled with stigmata,
flinging him into spiritual
and ecological ecstasy
far from any soirees,
backyard or otherwise.
Before he persuaded the wolf of Gubbio
to stop terrorizing townsfolk,
before he befriended the Sultan of Egypt,
mentored Clare, ministered to lepers,
surrounded himself with all creatures,
crawling and soaring, he was just
Giovanni, spoiled rich boy, soldier
enamored of self and Arthurian legends,
collector of wine, women,
fair-weather friends, fatted calves
on a spit, raucous parties, and no-
where-near-righteous party animals.
