The Flagellant
“… and the flagellant gathers his strength, his wounds burning, blood purging; his tiresome spirit tightening.” And he’s down to bare back, the swish, as he walks, of areca palms around his waist; on his head, the flaming swell of hibiscus on weedy greens. He’s yoked short, wooden sticks, crowned with iron points, and bound with a leather leash, the better for the scourge. In the air, blood and sod fret the mangosteens to turn, red fire thickening — and you whisper, sweeter… The ash-gold on the penitents’...
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