Caught in the cathedral early in the morning under the fluorescent glow. Praying for forgiveness from the hired healer for the names that I don’t know. Hands folded together, walking toward an altar I could maybe make my home. The bread and the wine, the holiest chyme, the King on his chloride throne.
The confession of sins through a microscope lens when the stain speaks as loud as your heart. Talking in tongues to the daughters and sons, to the husbands and wives in the dark. The calcium stripped from the bones of believers; the devil inside of your neck. A sacrament given before exorcism: I’m washing my hands of the death.
Then Cosmas and Damian said, “What good is a leg if you’re in the grave? To earn our patronage sever yourself, amputate everything that makes you trip if the autoclave’s proven ineffective. ‘Cuz ambulating with a limp isn’t half as bad as the infection.”
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