Stephen, crushed by a steady migraine
and a collection of kidney stones,
has never shed the pique of original martyrdom.
St. Stephen’s crown, as is well known,
was broken open. Stephen means Crown.
His faithful namesake was murdered
for speaking the truth, so our Stephen lies
and faithfully avoids church. For years,
he’s been feeding Bible pages to his hole-punch
and saving the paper circles. If you cross him,
our Stephen won’t pray for you. He’ll pour
his collected confetti into the air conditioning system
of your car, so that verse snows forth
on your clothes, the floor, your hair. Much later,
when you think by now it should be over,
the last circles will still blow out
each time you turn the ignition.
This is how Stephen will stone you: remotely,
with persistent, galling precision.