Canticle 91
Tonight you tattooed “probity” on my soul. It’s not the first mark you’ve bestowed upon me. There was a lamp, wings, bronze serpents, a whole array of images to cherish, to reconcile magic and faith within me, for myself, and for the world—surely—in a sense at least, like any disciple. Probity. Of course, panic set in: how to live with this commandment? How to live at this moral high ground? How to live according to this model?
“You don’t understand anything,” you whispered in my ear.
“It’s not an order, it’s an acknowledgment, it’s meant to penetrate your skull through your skin: the skin of your soul, the membrane of your heart, it’s all the same. All those mystics, those who had my wounds and instruments of sacrifice marked on their hearts… It was nothing else. Marks on the soul of belonging, of loyalty. We don’t need a show, no need to shout from the rooftops, simply to be in your uprightness, in the rectitude where I have placed you, where you seek to remain not through violence towards yourself, not through flagellation, but through adherence, through consent, because elsewhere is not you, because elsewhere does not call to you, because elsewhere does not build you up, because elsewhere does not allow you to be for yourself, for others.”
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