For the Feast of St Catherine of Siena
She drank the purifying firewater
(purer than the purest alcohol)
from the fountain where all can drink to the full.
Then she immersed herself.
She emerged with the fire in her eyes
and came close to the beggar in the ditch
and the pope within the palatial estate.
Her words and deeds became the titanium arrows
drawn red-hot from the furnace of his chest.
He had died of that hunger so intense
it produced the bloody sweat
that fell to the ground
and mixed with the dirt of the earth
and covered the surrendering wood.
(The dry wood burns best.)
The fire can’t help itself from burning.
It transforms into itself whatever comes near.
It dries up the dankness of conceit.
She preached the atonement
of both the furnace and the fountain.
She took on the air of the unquenchable flame.
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