I did not itch for saint-
hood. Not particularly. The scar
on my neck will keep that secret
for me as long as there as believers, or until sex
is made a sacrament. (Pray for poor memory, servant
to fantasy and its most unwilling spy!)
Indecorous though it may be to spy,
to peek into a closed book, I’ve learned that saints
don’t get a private life. So I sleep in the servants’
quarters—little more than a smoke-scarred
garret between myth and history—and I’ve renounced sex.
Well, go on, ask me something secret.
I’m duty-bound to spill any secret,
though I can’t guarantee objectivity. Spy
on me all you wish: you’ll not unearth a life ruined by sex
or made glorious by crusade. “Most human of saints,”
I’ve been called. My scapulae bear the faint scars
of penitence, yet my house ran on the clockwork of servants.
The rest of the story you know—the servant’s
constancy cut short, the secret
kept intact, the blade falling. Armed with a scarred
bit of parchment, I found solace in spying
on myself (before that, too, was taken away). Was it saintly
detachment or vain introspection, like the king’s obsession with sex?
The mind’s creations are sexless,
at least; but, like rebel angels, they make poor servants.
Happy is the disciplined saint
who can palimpsest his own thoughts, keep his own secrets
from turning into spies.
Even silence may leave one scarred.
Historian, don’t ask to see these faded scars.
The dead are not lepers, sex
oddities, or court clowns for you to spy
on in the name of truth. To die a servant—
isn’t that enough? Must every secret
be sussed out before one’s forced to be a saint?
Very well, I’ll play the saint—
heal every scar,
keep nothing secret,
smirk at sex.
Just remember: I died the king’s good servant,
but God’s spy.