And are they saints if you burn them,
the piled wood beneath their naked feet?
They died for the faith, my teacher said in
catechism. She once berated forty
children for thirty minutes because
one chewed gum with the Eucharist;
she and her husband divorced, I heard.
Such is the way of the world.
She’s married in the eyes of
God, of course, like that woman I know whose
ex stockpiled firearms in a bunker and
forbid her to leave the house.
Marriage is a covenant, like Abraham’s,
the faithful servant who held the
blade to his bound son’s throat.
But that’s a saint, you understand:
they hear that voice, they obey;
they let everything fucking burn.