Furini’s Agatha
I’m looking back. God, I always look back—a recycled 
Lot’s wife in soft sfumato. Gazing 
  
at my captors or my father, all manacles 
and forceps and the well-smithed crab claw. 
  
No, scorpion tail! My hair’s a shackle 
of snails, sin-of-torture washed, a blue shawl eternally falling  
  
from restoration-chest. It’s dark behind:  
men are mysteries, in sum. My lips parted. 
  
As. If. Saint me, yes, but don’t draw me this way. 
Pink ribbon virgin when I died— 
  
no matter how many eyes stabbed through me first. 
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