This morning, I woke with stigmata; up my arms, out my tear ducts. Neighbors say it's a curse on this town: God has arrived in diminutive plagues. My vessels: blood rivers. Now we await our firstborn's demise, or something like it. We figure miracles'll kill us if they don't crush our souls first.
Sure, we never understood the blessing of the Blood. Thought He swelled into flesh only to wither away again. We have the hard, hard hearts. Mine seems to be crumbling to fragments; meanwhile, along my arms, here, is violent cleaving of flesh and faith, or something like it.