The Apotheosis of Saint Agatha

A sestina; in reaction to a painting by Bernardino Luini

The guard stared hard at us; we knew
that we were being rude. The saint
smiled down serenely on our folly.
Our giggling could not jar her joyful
contemplation of her breasts,
presented on a plate like puddings.

The problem was we'd both said puddings
at the same time, and although we knew
we should not mock the severed breasts
of such a pure and valiant saint,
somehow we couldn't stop. Her joyful
gazing just prolonged our folly.

And yet, perhaps, it was not folly
to find ridiculous those puddings,
inert upon their plate. Our joyful
giggling grew because we knew
no woman -- no, not even a saint -
ever owned such sillabub breasts.

Plopped on their plate, those pallid breasts
seemed sure proof of the painter's folly.
What made Luini think a saint-
ly bosom should resemble puddings?
Agatha was a virgin who knew
only God's love, but still her joyful

heart pumped blood, not custard; joyful
martyrs who choose to lose their breasts
lose flesh, not flan. Luini knew
some real breasts, surely? Or did his folly
spring from a lack? Did he use puddings
to model the bosom of his saint

because no raggazza, blessed with saint-
ly patience, would sit and hold that joyful
look on her face for hours? But puddings
would pose demurely? And unlike breasts,
would own no wits to ken a man's folly,
nor lips to protest what they knew?

This much we knew: the smiling saint
forgave our folly and blessed our joyful,
jiggling breasts as we both giggled puddings!

© Teresa Ritter 2001

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