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The Angel

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Drusilla was eaten up with holiness. She was high on holiness, and wished to be burned up with it. She aspired to a martyrdom of sainthood, body pierced and torn, blissful and sacrificial. She felt, low in her abdomen and hot in the beating of her heart, an erotic love for the Son of God, for the voices of angels and the unknowable force of Spirit; moving, moving, moving.

As a vast monster in the dark, oceanic depths; Spirit moved.

She was eaten up with the dark green gloss and blood red of holly, a pagan tribute that decorated the dark wood of the chapel and sang to her those things she couldn’t speak. Visions. Gods, not unlike Jesus, who walked wild lands with horns upon their heads and hot need riding shameless cocks.

She was dizzy with the scent of lilies, like dewy-fresh girls, like untried sex and the waxy skin of the funeral dead. The lilies whispered, Mary; but they also whispered the names of older goddesses, women as wild as the wild gods, whose paths were bloody with both love and war.

She closed her eyes, awash in visions and taken, seduced by holiness. She swooned to the honey scent of beeswax candles, and – wishing to be good, to be scented with rosary beads of crushed rose petals; to be scented with the dove-feather scent of bibles and confessionals – she covered the wild-animal and tempestuous note of her hair with a bridal veil of white.

She would be washed in the Blood of the Lamb, and the visions would transform, showing her only a golden light of Heaven. The witches, the fae; the bare-legged and loose-haired women would trouble her no more.

Drusilla opened her eyes and beheld an Angel.