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