Relic

The first time I touched it, cloth fell under my fingers, the frail white folds softened, demure. No burn, no combustion at the touch of skin. It sat, silent, like any other contents of any other box: photographs of the dead, heirloom jewels. Exposed to thin windowlight it is exactly as in movies: a long gown, and where a chest must have breathed, a red cross crossed over. The crown, I know, waits underneath, the hood with eyes carefully stitched open, arch cap like a bishop’s, surging to its point.