Tower Hill, 6 July 1535
Kissing a saint is difficult work.
My unbelieving lips
in vain attempt to mold the ancient marble,
just as he, presumably,
can no more figure me out than I him.
The shadow of a reluctant suicide
hangs over me:
Damocles laughing behind Cupid's back.
Jew, drag king, Muscovite -- my whole self's a disguise,
a perjury under oath.
I slip my hands beneath his fur-lined coat,
expecting there to find
some blessed essence,
but instead
I only feel a heartbeat.
Saints, it is said, have hearts of light
(and devils hearts of stone)
but he, my Thomas,
is through and through a man --
and only that.