The Bodies of Saints

Alan Kissane

Dammit, if you insist 

On moving the bodies,

Take all of them, leave

Nothing behind. Not a hair,

A tooth, a nail. It’s cruel

To break them into pieces,

To scatter them amongst

Empty churches like confetti, 

To no longer move muscle

Or sinew. I vividly recall 

The day I saw a headless corpse 

Running through the streets, 

Weaving in and out of traffic,

Panicked. I’ve even seen blood 

In supermarket aisles

From footless wanderers 

Unaware of the mess 

Being made in their Holy Name.

I’ve seen chiselled arms 

Groping at the air for a torso, 

A heart, to hold. Many tears  

Have been shed on offering 

Plates, where money is promised

In their name, to make them

Whole again. And I’ve seen

That same money spent 

On things the colour 

Of a dishonest tongue. So 

I promise you never to tear 

A single body in half or pluck  

A word from any mouth for

Safekeeping, out of curiosity,

Out of greed, just because I can. 

I have enough

Trouble piecing myself

Together as it is.

About the writer