Beatification

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.