Relics’ Requiem
Behind glass, resting now, as after a long
journey, putting their feet up, the relics
are checked in to the cathedral treasury
like so many tourists in a mid-range hotel.
Formerly they were carted from place to place
like family heirlooms, by monks and priests,
stolen like silver or gold credit cards to heaven
by pilgrims, invaders and rival orders. What
is that absurd need to eff the ineffable that
drives us mad? Here it is: masquerading
as fragments of bone; vials of dried blood;
foreskins. How dreary they look shucked
from their shells: dirt under ancient finger
nails; the itchy aroma of dust; the shrivelled
skin of hope, dry and wrinkled as a face
whose beauty has been capsized by time.
The relics keep their secrets, snigger at our
confidence in the capacity of the intangible,
Laugh Out Loud at our longing for the
numinous to blunt the blade of the real.
Colin Pink writes poetry and lectures on the history of art. His poems have appeared previously in Ink Sweat & Tears and in other literary magazines such as Poetry News; The Shop; Poetry Salzburg Review; South Bank Poetry. Acrobats of Sound, a collection of his poetry, was published by Poetry Salzburg in 2016.