Catherine never saw
without wanting to kiss
a leper’s sore,
she whose flesh
throve on something
so like fresh air
(body of Christ),
any more
was already as much
as she could bear.
To the pure in heart
all is pure.
We are not ourselves.
We are His vessels.
The dead saint’s head
the faithful sever
turns to a bagful
of rose petals.
I the leper am healed
of my evil.
Now heal me as fast
of your cure.
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