From the postulator: a few words to his candidate concerning hagiography.

Welcome to the posthumous world.

Already you'll notice a few changes in your past--

Objects and persons best given
to one-line explanations. Nouns trained to barely respond
when I nudge them with verbs--

We can't have them taking on lives of their own.

Today I found three--
cup, sheet, and hair--
willing to live under glass or be torn
into relics.

Coagulate's out--

When we think of your blood,
housebroken's the word
come to mind. Stigmata enough

just to brim a small slit in each palm.

I can't say we're pleased,
but Madrid gets away with your best cuts of meat.
Barcelona gnaws two of your ribs--

Just answer yes when you're prayed to in Spanish.

Until you come up with the miracles getting you canonized,
forget about sleep. Don't mistake

light's matted mess
for some sort of halo. You'll know one
when you receive one

from me. You must always remember

the odor of sin,
the smell that our souls make
rotting inside us. I'll see you a saint--

Don't let God forget me--

Know me when you recognize my scent.