I turn Christ’s cross till it turns Catherine’s wheel,

Ixion’s wheel becoming Andrew’s cross,

All four being windlass ways

To press my truth full home, force you to feel

The brevity of your days,

Your strength’s, health’s, teeth’s, desire’s and memory’s loss.

The bitten plate, removed from its Dutch Bath

Of mordants, has been set below a screw

That will enforce my will

Like the press that crushed Isaiah’s grapes of wrath.

My lightest touch can kill,

My costly first impressions can subdue.

Slowly I crank my winch, and the bones crack,

The skull splits open and the ribs give way.

Who, then, thinks to endure?

Confess the artistry of my attack;

Admire the fine gravure,

The trenched darks, the cross-hatching, the pale gray.

This is no metaphor. Margaret Clitheroe,

A pious woman, even as she prayed

Was cheated of her breath

By a court verdict that some years ago

Ordered her pressed to death.

I’m always grateful for such human aid.