“Do you want a tea?” Álvaro asked me. We were in the sunroom. His words felt soft, a delicate flower, pure and radiant, blooming with Life amidst the loosestrife of the barbed garden.

    No, I did not want a tea. It was far too warm for that.

    “No, I do not want a tea,” I said.

    The tea, I knew with a certainty above myself, would burn my throat. I would enjoy the taste of it on my tongue, and I would enjoy the warmth with which it would soothe my heart. Then I would feel the burn, and I would look to Álvaro, and feel flushed next to him. Not the same flush I would get when he showed me the Tijuana bibles he loved from Lisbon, laughing, or that flush I would get when my words were sharp, thrashing in my mouth. It would just be a flush.

    This is normalcy. And although Álvaro may have escaped me, in a world ideal, these would be my Wednesday mornings in the rise of hot Portuguese summers.

    Then, Álvaro leaves for work. I don’t know what he does for work anymore. At the time, perhaps an odd cobbling job, or raking the lawn of old Beto who lived down the street, or maybe even sitting still for an artist in his atelier, legs pulled, and arms strung, hair poised, his nose sneered upwards in aristocracy unbeknownst to him, his pretty eyes locked onto a corner of the room.

    I would be in the sunroom, still. I would sit there. A book in my lap discarded for thoughts of Álvaro instead. What is he doing? I wonder what he’s thinking, then? Perhaps he would enjoy seeing Moeira once more? They’re practically nephew and aunt, at this point, with the passion behind her pinches of his cheeks, I would be concerned if they were not indeed. Then, maybe, what would it feel like to have Álvaro beneath me, struggling for a breath? Would he say my name, or would he merely cry? I do not see him cry often—what would be enough to bring it about? The threat of his own death, or actions so unspeakable from an angel that he loved? I wonder, as his throat closes, would he whisper my name still? “Tell me that it isn’t over,” he would say, and I would tighten my grip; then, I would let go, stumble backwards, and I would be in the confessional. Father Carias: “Are you there, little Italian?” No, I am not Italian, “I am not an Italian.” No, Father Carias, with his might, and I would step out the booth, and Father Carias would be posed in a genuflexion so tense he snaps, and his vestments turn into the arms of the Sabbath—No, I am not Italian—and the arms of the Sabbath reach upwards, and I am at the physical reality, The Ultimate Reality, I feel a supreme Presence—Father Carias, “Gabriel, I am but the custodian of whispers,”—Then, Álvaro appears underneath me, I am in a pew, Sin lift untended will devour you, Yes Carias, you are right, No Carias, I did not. Yes Carias, I am here, and the Sabbath is here. In this house of God? In my house of God, you bring your lies? Says Father Carias. No, I do not bring them, and, Oh! Álvaro is here, would you like to have some dinner? A little, just an indulgence, a proposal, from me to you, to my Church, only a small gift, little Italian, little not-Italian, small Portuguese, and the shadow sets unto me, Carias is but a statue—a statue, his legs, twisted in grace, a beatific illustration of contrapposto, and at the bottom, my boy with a sculpting knife, and a chisel, and he chips away at the feet of Father Carias, and he washes the dust from his feet, and he kisses his feet, heretic Peter, and he washes his head and cradles him like a babe, then, I stumble backwards once more, and I am in the bed of Hela, and she turns to me like the Devil and she says “Come,” and I cry and wail, and now, I am without Flesh, I am Word, I am only self, I am asarkos, and I twist into a demon, and I twist into a demon, and where is the Sabbath? In the house of God where is the Sabbath? In my home where is the Sabbath? I hear Athtar’s war-cry in the high O high Sapon, great mount of eternal battle, a throne sat so high for Ba’al I cannot see its height—maybe it is small, little Italian—and I cannot see its unseen dominion, and its sharp needle pierces my skin, stitching my thigh, it exposes the cosmos, I feel the stars in my skin, You are the Star, and God’s sigh wrecks through my body, I shiver, Sapon grows no smaller, no smaller, when I summit it I find Galilee instead and I worship, Father Carias, am I a good disciple? Am I good? Please, am I good? And Exegete! Exegete! Exegete! A little bush burns, a bush burns, so numinously, a numinous bush, so transcendent, my Numen, and I feel sublimity, and I feel God, and God says to me “Gabriel,” and I say “God,” and did we not say the same? and he runs, and the bush is burning, and the bones are rising, and it makes a tree; this tree of New Jerusalem, it is of Eden, and I see the ribs of Adam in its branches and I see the heart of Eve in its trunk, and it beats, blood pumping, clay shaped, Israel-shaped, old Israel, poor man, my Creator is sculpting, and Álvaro is sculpting, Father Carias is born, I am, I AM, and the water touches me—Yes I am the truth No I do not lie—the Cardinal has ascended, the Cardinal is hunted, baby bird? Red plume, dark vestment, red of hell, Father Carias, am I good? Oh, am I a good disciple? Will you let me kiss you? Will you let Pontius rip you? Will you let me hang? Will you, Carias, Will you, Álvaro? Am I good? Please, am I good?

    I heat the water and make a tea, two sugars.