The black stone—
The stone that bludgeoned Saint Telemachus in the colosseum,
The stone whose edges have been sharpened
By the hands of interlopers,
Lies in the pit of my stomach—
The Mecca of my pain.
Tell me.
Has my suffrage been in vain?
Has the ballot for my soul been cast before my time?
Is my vote ancillary to Your divine Will?
Tell me.
Tell me now before it's too late—
While there are still one-night stands to have,
Hallucinogenic drugs to take,
And drunken nights to lie awake.
Or rather, say an intercessory prayer on my behalf.
I've recited the Seven Sorrows of Mary,
And now, I want a burning heart pierced by seven swords
Tattooed on my side.
When I die, regard me with a laugh and a sigh.
"Oh, those are pearls that were his eyes!" say,
And knowing how way leads on to way,
Leave me behind.
I shall lie supine—
My incorruptible body
Like Saint Bernadette's or Evita's—
Waiting for Him to bring the camphor oil
Up to my nose,
To rouse me from my slumber,
To wet my forehead with indiscriminate kisses.
I shall lie where
The lily of the valley grows
From soil soaked in the exile's tears.
I shall withhold the secrets dear
That only the earthworm knows,
And when—in the juvenescence of Spring—
The white tiger mauls the oxen,
I shall be resting beneath a flowering judas
With freshly spilled blood seeping at the roots.
The tiger picks the bones and licks his paws,
Yet my incorruptible fruit—
Olives, dates, and pomegranates—
Hangs stolidly from the bough.
He'll question why I do not die,
And I'll answer him,
"Shall we go on sinning so that grace may abound?"
