We are surrounded by a cloud
of witnesses, you say. A great
cloud of lead and gold that
holds the hammered halos
of saints and martyrs. You told us:
They will press you on toward me.
I can see them: eyes too wide,
too large for their two-dimensional
faces; two fingers and thumb held
in blessing. Holding her eyes
on a platter, St. Lucy stares
at me. St. Francis of the birds
reaches his palms out
to me, wet with wine-blood
pierced by no one but you.
They are always with me, pressing
my marrowless collarbones in their
mass of righteousness, pushing in
my chest. You are suffocating
but I gulp breaths of the pungent
incense that wafts up through me.
