The Gate
I was redeemed for a moment like the martyr with his cocked head, his shoulder dislocating along the wood. Not the first time I heard angels filling the humid places, the Angel of Relief holding my face in the garden to comfort me who-was-called, a child on the cusp of all that thereafter. Along the marshland, my feet flickering along the path, along the salt reek, the putrid fish half-gorged, the white wading birds rising up into abstraction before the monastery, that house of light, my house of tainted stained light and stolen relics—a shard of saint bone, I am told— I found behind ivy the weeping statue, and found myself again going back into the confessional a fourth time that month, into that dark mouth at the end of childhood, closing the gate of childhood, When did you touch yourself?— his coarsely-shaved chin moving behind the filigree of that screen— and how?