A Queer History of Relics
“As my feelings for R. grow, I find excuses to touch him, to mark him as my own.”
I think sometimes
our consolations are the costliest thing
The woman lies behind glass, head lolling on two royal purple pillows, blood oozing artfully from a single gash on her neck. She seems to be swooning: Her skin is sallow and waxy as an old candle stub and, through her half-closed lids, you can glimpse the whites of her eyes. Artificial roses—petals stiff, leaves dusty—bloom around her head. And in the space below the glass, a small golden plaque reads “CORPUS S. VICTORAUM.” The body of Saint Victoria.
clickThe Ecstasy of Saint Teresa
The Blessed Mother Mary
The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa
Treatise on Relics
Twelfth NightOxford English Dictionary
Not that pretty
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Inside his sewing box was an old girlfriend’s felt heart, stuck with pins. Throw it out, he says. I don’t.
“I imagined that spending so much time with a dead thing might make death more understandable.”