the scar birthed 
its own immense light 
like the always-lit candle 
of St. Agatha’s church
her breasts cut off 
by the dutiful soldiers
or so the story goes
tiny red cherries dipped 
in dyed sugar water 
meant to resemble 
her punished nipples
her breasts cassata cakes 
marzipan bound 
Pane di Spagna mounds 
high priestess of 
the volcanic plain
what binds me 
to the earth leaves me
my blood cresting in rivulets
my womb once a loom 
of always beginnings
now clothed in mystery
part sugar part saint 
part pagan procession
molten lava through 
and through—
why didn’t they hear me 
when I cried out 
“can someone please take 
my temperature?” 
the outer cliffs curtained over
why didn’t I see her again
the holy Mother her luminous baby?
or Saint Agatha floating floating out to sea—
save me, sweet Sant’ Agata! 
the light passes into the cave 
a striation of possible difference 
the boulder removed 
from entrance of tomb 
proves nothing