The Stigmata
The Stigmata First symptoms are always the same. Only a dull ache at first, Like the first days of the flu. He says nothing, like someone falling Ill on a journey, reluctant To inconvenience the others. Are you feeling alright? You look a little pale. Fine, thank you. But then, yes, Those are definitely wounds. Alone, he stares at them in fascination. A slow boring of the flesh away. Flies like cattle at the wells of them. In his palms, the soles of his feet. One in his side, too. That one confirms it. And now we’re getting down Into nerves, into bone. What he thought was pain wasn’t pain. This is pain. Impossible To keep what is happening secret. The night Mary had to tell Joseph She was pregnant. Impossible. I have something... His voice catches. It’s the pain. I have something To tell you. The brothers look up. He shows them his hands.