Sestina of the Martyrdom

View PDF

On the long tether of a day in June 
Beyond the Zion swamps, the prisoned palms
Of four men opened toward a promised land.
And yet, below the shadows of limestone 
Joseph thought again, I am going 
Like a lamb to the slaughter. 

There was time to think of slaughter 
As the sun poured down its muggy June 
And their voices rose in the glare, going 
Out to the hungry mob. Their prophetic palms,
Sweaty with the dust of limestone, 
Wore the memories of open land 

From Kirtland to the Far West landing 
From visions of Armageddon slaughter 
To Daniel’s thick and growing stone. 
They wondered if they’d live past June. 
They sang a final hymn. John raised his palms
To the ceiling soot. His voice went out, 

Passing the mob’s yell; it went out 
Like a string to salt’s vast land. 
Willard watched Joseph’s palms 
Shake—white brink before the slaughter. 
Bullet wind rushed the starchy June, 
Cracked the slabs of limestone, 

Scattered red shards of stone 
Across the withered floor. Hyrum went 
To the jail door, buckled in his June 
Sweat. 1 am a dead man. The land 
Choked beneath the cry of thieves. Slaughter’s
Phlegm gnashed in their teeth. Their palms

Stroked rifle bellies. Their tar-smearing palms
Left prints on the hot limestone. 
They circled again toward slaughter. 
Smith’s taken here, he’s not leaving 
For home again. The rocky land 
Rose in Joseph’s eyes, swallowed June 

Undergrowth. His palms closed as he went
Through the stone ledge window, falling to the land
On a June afternoon like a lamb to the slaughter.