Things would happen in that graveyard we’d keep between ourselves, teenagers whispering on the church steps, and statues of saints lit in silhouette. Things like eyes on the gentle slopes of her geography, the rise and fall of sovereignties, advances and retreats. Imagined tyrannies of promises that I never kept; the triumph of the profane. Sacrilege while I’m fucking a Catholic. Denying needs for anything, the quiet ways we learn to self-police, cabals of impulse put to cruelty. When they dig us up I swear we’ll smell sweet. Incorruptible.