the church is my reliquary, a temenos of bronze and glass— the old men preserved me, separated my head from my body then suspended it in the wall— they don their vestments in the old sacristy and sing in the great hall, bearing the heart of Our Lord as they pass by my window
of all the secrets I hold most dear: the martyrs were perfect only in death— each passing was unique, contrived by their executioners and made palatable by the faithful— even now my fellow saints peer out from their canvases and tapestries with a passivity that belies their pain
chant
the acolytes stooped over the smooth ornamental carafes on the low table
a succoring child blessed my lips, poured the choice wine and chanted, sotto voce:
hair of the dog, hair of the dog, hosanna
epiphany
five toilet paper rolls on the plunger handle, a primitive stupa, a lingam and yoni, the ithyphallic Siva sits cross-legged like me, reading a magazine, looking at five toilet paper rolls on the plunger handle
the first coming
Laocon is still looking up sadly before his own devouring, wondering if this immense snake fell from an emasculated god.