when i was thirteen i found out i was sick but my life could still be saved. Father introduced me to a revolutionary new treatment called
“say fifteen Hail Marys every night before bed”
i did it every night for three months and every night i had the strangest dreams
wandering, Orpheus, wandering
past a cemetery standing still as the winding river Lethe whispered through it and reminded me of why i’d forgotten to leave
past the house on the hill where my uncle was living now that he’d gone to Hell
past monuments to those who had vanquished the sinners in dark alleyways with knives and bats
until i came before god himself sitting atop his golden throne and i asked him,
“god will you heal me?”
and he said if i sang for him he would grant me my wish, so i sang and sang but every morning when the dream ended i would awaken still sick.
