the madrigal, volume iii
Ballad of St. Drogo the Ugly
by kyle vaughn
My being is a ruin of light,
eyes too deep, in a foxden’s dark,
eyes held in black habitat,
born from a shineless mine.
Body hewn out of thorn and mulberry,
body nourished in a bog.
Head of dead and damned,
pacing a strangled gait.
Even dressed in a wreath of olive leaves,
my journey is a stone boat in snow.
I am anointed by a moonless wood
where I survived on water and Eucharist.
Here, I double my hideous form,
appearing at both Mass and in the beanfields.
In another world, my name is being spoken,
right-looking faces are waiting.
At the gate, I release my illness as a sapphire burst,
set the burden of my name between two pages.
I recite the words as scripture of new bones,
glory, glory, glory be.