He sits at the base of the thickest birch. Owls. Mockingbirds. Rustle of mice. Shine of centipedes. From here he can see the light of the church. Not afraid of it anymore. Loves it. Loves that it is always there. Sometimes he goes to light a candle, sit in the pews. Someone built this place knowing hardly anyone would come; there is so little room for those who do. And yet. Here it is. The grass high at its sides. In the missals: I look forward to the resurrection of the dead. And back through the woods with P.’s hand in his, to the dark house, to the body, fresh from the night, the window open, the sound of the stream. The body in his arms. Candles stuck all over the floor, he stole them one by one from a local craft store. Matchbooks free from the tobacco shop because the owner likes his patch that says Take Nothing, Leave Everything, he laughs and says, But you take my matches. Borrow pinecones, pieces of bark, stones, black feathers from the woods to dress the body in, the dish of bones at the head of the bed. Rub the skull with oil. Tie a piece of grass around the finger for a ring. You wear the crown. Wish you had the sword, but the real one is in the church and P. never lets you touch his. Pretending to make cuts with it all over your body. Once held it to the back of your neck. Could he do it, if he wanted. Kill you. He can make his body so heavy against yours, can appear twice as large as he was in the church, impossibly tall, his armor untarnished, his sword ablaze. In the woods, he bends you over a stone, lifting his skirt, you pant into the moss. You fuck the body but P. fucks you. How is it different from what so many others experienced, Maria Galluzi, Matilde of Magdeburg, Teresa de Ávila filling page after page with lust for Christ, a desire so consuming it could fill a mind, a room, a life. But you want the vessel, not just the light; you want a hand, a face, a shape, and that is what you have been given, though you can’t understand why, when you don’t even believe in gods or spirits or saints. Why, when you have faith only in this one life, did he show himself to you? You don’t ask. You just close your eyes and let him come.