Heaven Help The Saints

By Upama Bhattacharjee

You press your lips

to my blood-stained knuckles,

and I wonder if heaven forgives

sinners?

You always walk into the room like you own the damned place,

sparkling, a god descended

among the common, the mediocre.

Saviour, sinner—

yet never quite a stranger.

That tangerine scent clinging to your shirt

reminds me of summers I once adored.

That smile, just at the corner of your lips,

that silver cross hanging off your neck,

just so—

Ah, you.

Would you pray for me?

The Jesus on the wall stays silent,

as I pace the prison of my own making—

up ten steps, down ten steps.

I trace the cracks in the tiles;

I count sins with the freckles under your eyes.

Think of your hands folded in prayer,

think of your hands worshipping me.

Think not, think not:

dare not to think.

I dream of you in white sometimes.

Of you watching me

walk down the aisle,

veiled against the devotion in your eyes—

the same one that you wear at service.

I imagine your fingers brushing my veil, tentative, trembling.

Father, forgive me,

the white dress is blood red

and it won't wash clean.

Ah, you.

My saviour, my sinner.

Who are you, Salvatore, when you shed your halo, when you fold your wings—

sinner, saint?

Who told you that you are either?

You kiss my hand in greeting,

and later wonder why sinners

have the softest hands.

Holy man, pray for me.

Pray for me, because I am parched.

I spend afternoons wishing for

your hands in my hair,

holding me up, down, holding the sinner

you pardon again and everywhere.

Sometimes, I think you know—

not from my mouth, no;

but in the way I kneel, reverent,

when I speak to you,

the way I smile, all teeth and lips,

before you look away.

Maybe it’s pity, maybe power.

Maybe it’s the same thing after all.

I ask for mercy with my eyes,

and you hand me silence like it’s holy water.

I drink it because poison

from a god tastes too like ambrosia.

Yet, your hands tremble

when you light the candles of the votive.

Why do you turn away, Salvatore?

Are you afraid, just like me,

that I'll steal your divinity?

I'm a sinner not by fate, my love,

wilted, wasted, watered, and yet—

Ah, you.

Gentleman, god, saint.

Salvatore, kiss me

when the cathedral bells ring.

Let them hide my racing heart,

the soft sighs you'd heave.

Kiss me when the Sunday sun sets.

I've been so good,

and I no longer wish to be.

Ah, you.

You enigma. You goddamned fool.

Why do you never touch my face?

I shiver when your phantom settles

beside me now as I confess.

Your shadow hovers on the edge of love,

the faintest heat against the chill

of marble seeping into my knees.

I'll yearn for a while longer, Salvatore.

I will trace your shadow

on the pews until it fades,

until the church closes for the day,

and they chase away the sinners

begging at its doors.

By Upama Bhattacharjee