Saint Hyacinth of Caesarea
You carried your secret faith through the halls
Of the palace as calmly as you carried the bowl
Of warm rosewater into Trajan’s bedchamber.
Mealtimes you were a magician with your napkin.
To others it appeared that you were merely well-mannered,
Wiping your mouth with each bite, when really
You were filling its linen folds with half-masticated meat
You’d shake out later for the birds under your window.
But one night the chamberlain, suspicious of how
Thin you’d become, demanded you open the napkin.
From then on, sacrificial meat was all they would feed you,
So you refused to eat. In your starvation your body
Became so light you seemed to hover off the dungeon floor,
The taut chains groaning with the effort of holding you.
The guards claimed they saw you being comforted
And crowned by angels, and that when they carried you out,
You weighed no more than a dead bird does.
Centuries after your martyrdom and canonization,
Some nuns patiently encrusted your bones with jewels,
Helping you to pull off the long, slow magic trick
That began with that napkin – turning flesh into treasure.