Holiness
As beautiful as arrow bolts inside
The skin of Saint Sebastian, his flesh
Made up of martyrdom, his holey hide
As glossy as the oil paints when fresh,
That moment is the one that we desire.
Forget the pain. At first it’s only dull,
Or anyhow that’s what we’re told. The fire
Invades the sacred meat. At last the pull
Of arrowhead thwangs through the gut, its shit
And agony. It’s only then he knows
The meaning of the Christ. Till then the twit
Imagined he was being brave. The bows
And shafts had been a meditation till
That pang. His prayers became a wasting spill.
