Is it so wrong, Saint Sebastian,
for me to claim you, just as the plague victims did
when they compared their open sores
to your arrow wounds?
The unnamed artist took care
to highlight your best features—
the curls, the artful trickle of blood, the shape
of your thighs—when carving you, patron saint
of erotic death, of sacrilege, of closet cases
of men and women who spent Mass
meditating on the removal of your holy loincloth
Oh martyr, it is not your lithe
and bleeding body that intrigues me
but your death-stark eyes
white with a love so powerful
it’s burning you alive
from the inside
