Because he thinks he must be

ever-serving, Stephen brings

his killers a pile of rocks

in his red deacon’s vestments

embroidered with silver palms.

He celebrates his own feast

while His tonsure like a shelf

still supports the first stone thrown

to martyr him. As the blue-

clad gospel beneath his arm

falls, he looks down. This was my

body, he prays, but forgive

and bless them since they made such

relics where before were none.