THE WORLD:
Longing, longing, longing, love, love, love, baby girl who sleeps in my dreams, You, angel of my mental health, Little Flower, pussy love, do you ever think of me?
THÉRÈSE:
Do I think of you? Can a pounding heart be said to think? Does the hand that trembles convey thought on its rosy fingers or did my breasts, once girl’s breasts but now grown to full womanhood, form cold crystalline thoughts as they heaved up and down, sighing because they were no longer touched and kissed by your lovely mouth, my little brussel sprout? My lips remember, my skin remembers, the treasure between my legs ached for one word from you, one sight of you after my great blasphemy, after you became my Lord and not the Nazarene. I read my missals, said my rosary countless times a day, prayed to the Blessed Mother, confessed my grievous faults and sins, ate the host of the holy communion, performed Stations of the Cross, but it was hopeless after your invocation. Ah! How sweet was that first kiss of Jesus! It was a kiss of love; I felt that I was loved, but, it was you, not humble Jesus who transformed me from a girl to a woman. I no longer wore the habit. Instead, I wore you. And, indeed, I became worldly. More worldly than anyone knows as I spent my heaven on earth, pining for you. Oh, what a crown I have woven. C’est dommage.
Everyone thinks I died at twenty-four, but I did not. I only died to my old life and my pussy has yet to dry for my dreams are still filled with thoughts of you and how you made me come as I’d never come before, as our Lord must someday surely come. Such power. You rammed me and rammed me until I came like a shower of roses from heaven. I left the convent and my little French town and traveled all over the world, acquired great wealth, spoke in many tongues, commanded men; when I said ‘come hither,’ he came, with a ‘go thither,’ he left my sight, and I now have estates, thoroughbreds, chariots, servants, I ride to hounds on wild Arabian horses, and yes, I had other lovers, men who spoke of empire, who commanded boats to spirit me away to their secret islands; they gave me gold for my wisdom, silver for my beauty, diamonds for the clarity of the stars in my eyes, one offered me half his kingdom if I would make love to him just once; there were merchants and traders, soldiers, nobles, wayfarers, teachers, troubadours who could pluck the strings of pagan Apollo but not the strings of this woman’s disgraced heart as I now see that our Lord wraps himself in darkness and disgrace as easily as he wears the garment of beautiful splendid nature . . .
I was more than a queen, I was a maiden king who drank wine under the moon of the Caribees, spied on the riches of Africa, traded in the markets of Muhammad, saw men rocketed into the heavens in Florida, I had the finest food, the most elegant clothes and silks on my back, I knew the mysteries of the north, the south, east and west, and even of the unseen cardinal points, and I was seen myself, little child, I knew what it is to be seen; I read the worldly philosophers and learned the magic arts, did battle against the powers of doctors, dogs and devils and, as if over night, suffering was no longer sweet to me. I sought pleasure and joy; smoked fine cigarettes in long, silver quellazaires and read dispatches with my ivory lorgnette. I even had women as well; I sucked from their unearthly breasts and kissed their lips and hair, drank nectar from their wombs and navels, a frightening music emanated from me . . . To you, to the World, I was a ruler, a monarch, an empress of pleasure, but inside, just a lonely girl left empty and desolate, for what does it profit a woman to gain the World but pay tribute to an empty heart? Fin de siècle, ḉ’est vrai? And yet, even now, I look at my naked image and rejoice. So possessed is one at such times and points, one is dizzy with inspiration. I kiss my own hands and arms. I hypnotize all—men, women, the child, the pious, the heathen—because I am delicious. I have the smell and taste of a goddess, not a saint. I did not ask for these gifts, neither do I refuse them. I give them freely to such as I love and loves me. I could spend all of eternity with your head between my legs, with your wonderful cock inside me, but can’t you relate to me now as a sister, rather than a lover?
THE WORLD:
But, why, mademoiselle?
THÉRÈSE:
Because I’m taken. Taken. But, my saint day is the day of your birth, your real birth: October 1, my saint day, the day of atonement, piety wed with worldly love . . . I ask you to cut the past away . . . here they are, the Freemason sword, the Knights Templar sword, the Celtic, the Claymore, the Excalibur, the honi soit qui mal y pense sword, take your pick. Scimitar. Dagger, harmonica, shilleagh, rod of Aaron, Catholic propaganda sword. It is you who needs awakening. Time to wake up. Réveillez-vous! Mourn . . . mourn for the glory that has left the earth, the world; get your horns back. Do it right this time. Not so aggressive; don’t come on so strong. Say that I loved you as no one else could, that I offered myself as a victim of fire to your merciful and passionate love so that all sins and crimes might be forgiven and that you consumed this woman and loved her with an immortal love. Say that your gentle muse, the formerly innocent Thérèse of the Child Jesus, of the Holy Face, heals those who invoke her, those who PRAISE the Lady, that she is the patron saint of love and holy longing and of atonement, but also of Balance and Sanity. She is always your sister. Say that I never wavered in my love, say you consumed me heartily, say the World trembles when it gazes on something immortal, which is why you slouch toward Lowell. Just go there. To Lowell. Hear the Confession. Go sooner rather than later. Réveillez-vous! Allez! Look for me in Lowell. I’ll be watching you. Allez!
THE WORLD:
I call your name. Je t’aime.
THÉRÈSE:
Je t’aime.
