Holy Water

5 Nov

A loud Sunday morning cloudburst interrupts the sermon,
as if to quench our thirst. In this old stone church
cut and leaded glass depictions of Christ’s life and work
continue lifting the worshiper to holy
                        God, even if grayed by storms.


I have repaired old windows, have extracted the brittle glazing,
and, once, a long wavy shard plunged suddenly to flesh,
severed so many tiny vessels a ribbon leapt like Christmas
from my inner wrist—red wet
                        the pieces and the pavement.

My eyes reach for the folds of an umbrella flat on the floor
and the sermon pours, the Nimble Priest carousing
all through my veins and arteries. His footfall the slipper sound
of water cleansing gore above
                        armies of the angels waging war.  


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