The twilight is hard
On an old idolater.
But he should have another look
At that tattoo on her lower back.
Granny should too,
For that matter.
Along with the contraceptive patch
Strategically affixed so as not to obscure
The artfully drawn stain
That his holy water
Cannot wash away.
Which is not to say
That an excess of liquidity
Would not do the trick
A fact of which his bishop reminds him daily.
But hers is green and vigorous,
Funding a graced economy.
And his is brown and tepid,
Hollowed out by years of inflation.
Yet, even the greenest leaves
Bear the mark of their own decay,
As dew-wet flowers dry
Into autumn bouquets.
It is for these he eagerly waits
To decorate the funeral mass
In the days before her death
When the sun will rise again
On the baptismal bath
Where, in spite of his over-excited articulation
No doubt inspired by a fleeting return to relevence
Only her silent babble
Will again imply the consent
Of an unwarranted salvation.
Eric Bugyis teaches Religious Studies at the University of Washington Tacoma.